Rentboy Sherlock
by regrette rien
Summary: AU/before Sherlock met John, he was working as a rentboy, and not having a particularly easy time of it. He turns to drug use in order to cope. Introducing OC Tommy.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: This fanfic is inspired by the livejournal user Ohdearsherlock's response to a prompt on the Sherlock kinkmeme, which asked for "the obligatory fandom Hooker!AU". Ohdearsherlock's response was slightly abandoned for about a month, during which time the plotbunnies gnawed at me and caused me to write my own take, which I have posted on livejournal. Sorry for the cross-posting! Ohdearsherlock has now continued their story, which can be found here - .com/  
Warnings for this fic: rape, drug use, prostitution, language, abuse, suicide attempts, bullying, violence, eating disorders, psychological trauma...all in all, it's a pretty grim tale. Recommended for readers aged 18+  
Summary: AUSherlock is working as a rentboy, and has a particularly eventful time of it. Part One is Ohdearsherlock's section of the story which inspired me.

xxRegretteRienxx

Sherlock hid in the shadows, watching as the police milled around the crime scene. Idiots, all of them, he thought. The fools couldn't see what was right in front of their faces. He sighed in exasperation as he looked at them, wishing he could go over and smack a few of them on the backs of their heads until they got what was clearly obvious. Of course, the last time he'd tried that, he'd gotten arrested for prostitution, even though he hadn't been trying to do anything other than help. It had been some cop named Anderson with some sort of personal vendetta against rent boys.

"You there." A voice shouted.

Oh, great, he'd been spotted. He thought about running, since he hated spending the night in jail, and he'd been roughed up quite a bit last time, from both the police and the other cellmates. But, when he saw who had shouted, he decided to stay put. It wasn't Anderson, or any other cop that he would have recognized. And, he could tell from the man's gait and the way he was coming toward him that he wasn't about to be immediately arrested. The man wasn't reaching for handcuffs or calling for back up, and he could tell from the inflection in his voice that the words weren't meant to be accusatory.

"Inspector Lestrade," the man said, flashing a badge in Sherlock's face, "Were you, by any chance, in this area last night around 2 am?"

"You mean when that man was murdered?" Sherlock answered, crossing his arms defensively.

"How do you know about that? You don't have anything to do with that, do you?"

"No. And I wasn't here last night, either."

"No? Where were you?"

"I was…working," Sherlock said reluctantly. It was obvious from the state of his own attire what kind of work he did, and he could tell that the inspector knew it, too. Sherlock wore tight jeans, a black shirt, and black eyeliner. His coat was at his flat, and he had nothing to cover up with.

"All right," the inspector said, slightly surprising Sherlock with that reaction, "Can you tell me anything that might help in our investigation?"

Sherlock chuckled.

"Well, maybe if your team bothered looking at any actual clues, they might have it solved by now," Sherlock answered, "Look at the scene. Look where you are. Red light district, inspector. It's obvious what went down. That man got a little too rough with his choice of….escort, and she decided to defend herself."

"She? How can you tell it was a she?"

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes.

"It's obvious, inspector. There's a tube of lipstick over there by the edge of the yellow police tape, which, might I add, your team hasn't noticed at all. There's also the fact that…"

Sherlock continued on for about five minutes, rattling off minutia left and right. By the time he was done, Lestrade was staring at him with wide eyes.

"Will that do, inspector?" Sherlock said when he was done talking.

"How did you do that?"

"Simple deduction, that's all. You'd do well to remind your team to open their minds as well as their eyes. They see, but they don't observe. And if they do observe, they don't make the right connections."

"What's your name?" Lestrade asked.

"Sherlock Holmes," he answered. He wasn't about to lie, not when the police already had his name and fingerprints on file. He stared at Lestrade defiantly, daring him to arrest him when he'd basically handed him the solution to a murder.

"Here's my card, Sherlock," Lestrade said, handing it to him, "And since you're so keen on giving advice, here's some for you. You'd do well to get yourself off the streets. Find yourself another line of work. I appreciate the help, but if I find you out soliciting, I'll still have to arrest you."

Sherlock took the card and nodded curtly, turning his back on Lestrade and quickly striding away. Lestrade might have been a little less of an idiot than the others, but Sherlock knew that Lestrade didn't know what he was talking about when it came to his life. Sherlock couldn't just quit. He needed to pay the rent some way, and this was who he was now. He'd tried to be someone else back in University, but he'd never been accepted there. Sherlock knew he'd never manage in a regular job, either. He'd tried, and been fired from several jobs, mainly for telling off managers or customers, or both. He knew in his heart he'd never be able to relate to people. It was true that he'd been hated in University, and he'd eventually dropped out, unable to cope with being beaten up every other day for being different. He knew that the job market thought he was worthless, unable to follow directions or act normal enough to work in an office or something similar. That was why he walked the streets now. He had a boyish face and a tight arse, and that was all he was good for according to the world.

Now Sherlock walked home to his small flat. He wasn't about to go out and work tonight, not when there were so many police about, and especially not with Lestrade's threat hanging over him like that. He trudged up the steps to the small flat he rented from Ms. Hudson and collapsed on the sofa. He lit a cigarette and sat, thinking to himself. He took Lestrade's card out of his pocket and twirled it around in his fingers. He'd already committed the number to memory, but he liked the way it felt in his hands, being the only thing anyone had given him in a long time.

His mobile buzzed, and he looked at the text: Want some company?

Sherlock texted back: Always. SH

Okay, so that was a lie. But Allen was a regular, and it's not like he couldn't use the money, even when all he felt like doing was lying down and savoring the day for actually being a good one. No one had called him crazy, no one had beaten him, or arrested him, or even insulted him. On top of that, he'd even gotten someone to listen to him. Oh, yes. It had been a good day. Sherlock was lost in thought until he heard the knock at the door. That was fast, he thought. Allen must have already been on his way when he sent the text.

Sherlock tucked the card in the coffee table drawer and went to answer the door.

"Hey, gorgeous," Allen said, walking into the flat and immediately taking Sherlock into his arms. Allen was just as tall as Sherlock was, but had twice the muscle. Of course, that wasn't nearly so impressive considering that Sherlock was lanky, gangly, mostly skin and bones himself. Most of the punters liked his look, said he looked like a pretty little twink, and it made him easier to shove around like a rag doll during sex.

"Miss me?" Allen said, groping his arse and grinning. Sherlock could smell the alcohol on Allen's breath. Great. He had hoped Allen would just want a simple suck and then let him alone to his own devices, but he could tell that wasn't going to happen.

Allen dragged him into the bedroom and stripped Sherlock out of his clothes. It didn't take long, since Sherlock had already taken off his socks and shoes, and he never wore underwear anyway. It made him 'easy access' as the punters liked to say.

Allen shoved him face down on the bed and unzipped his own flies, kneeling between Sherlock's legs and pushing them further apart.

"You want my cock, baby?" Allen grunted.

"Yeah," Sherlock answered, waiting for the telltale crinkle of a condom wrapper, and turning to look at Allen when it didn't come.

"Condom," Sherlock reminded him, reaching up to the bedside table.

"Oh, no you don't," Allen said, "We don't need, one, do we baby? Come on, you know you're my only whore. Let me fuck you bare."

"Wait," Sherlock said, trying to protest as he felt a finger breach his hole. He never allowed himself to be fucked bare, it wasn't a risk he liked to take. And Allen, in his drunken state, was going to have his own way.

"Wait," Sherlock tried again, "It'll be better with lube, at least."

Allen ignored his pleas and spit into his hand, forcing two fingers inside Sherlock's arse. Fuck, this was going to hurt. But, there was no way he could reason with Allen, or fight him off. Sherlock closed his eyes and resigned himself to his fate.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: This section onwards is my own work.

xxRegretteRienxx

* * *

It felt as though it would split him in half, but he didn't cry out, for fear that it would, impossibly, get worse.

They'd never find him doing something as foolish as empathising with another human being again, he resolved with a grim set to his jaw.

He found himself imagining killing Allen, and then, mysteriously, cataloguing different ways in which he could disguise the murder, make it look like an accident.

He mentally shook his head. There was no way he could gain the upper hand in this situation right now.

No way.

The money was thrown at him afterwards, as he still lay on the bed in pain.

"I hope you're not getting old, baby," Allen sneered as he got dressed, "I'll have to find a new fuck."

Sherlock didn't answer him, he couldn't bring himself to, and Allen made his own way out.

Although previously he'd been exhausted, sleep was not forthcoming after Allen had left, so slowly, gradually, Sherlock drew himself to his feet. He was not seriously injured, he noted with a dark sort of satisfaction. _Only psychologically, then,_ he determined. And he'd have to go and make sure that he was still clean. A surge of anger overwhelmed his turmoil of emotions, and he pulled on his clothes. He lit one cigarette shakily, while still in the flat, and pocketed Allen's dirty cash. He couldn't stay here right now. He had no idea where he was going to go, but currently, anywhere would be an improvement.

The policeman's contact card lay on the table in the dark apartment.

His feet took him back near the park where he worked. How inconvenient of them to do such automatic things. He was preoccupied, and his body's autopilot was useless. If anyone saw him walking around the park, as he did on a weekly basis, they'd think he was looking for a job, and there was no way he could possibly do one right now.

He decided to turn left down Montague street. If he did that, the mental map leapt into his head unbidden, then he could cut across the block and basically follow Drury Lane until he wound up at the Thames. Polluted though it was, the lapping water usually soothed his racing mind.

Usually.

But he never got the chance. A car pulled over in front of him as he was about to cross over to the pedestrian island, and Sherlock froze. He had no back up as a rentboy; no pimp and certainly no union. If the person in this car wanted to use him, and didn't take no for an answer, Sherlock had no choice. He steeled himself, and muttered the closest thing to resembling a prayer he had ever uttered in his life.

The car door opened.

But it was the wrong side, it was the passenger, and someone was getting out. Someone skinny, wearing tight clothes. Someone who looked like the streets were his home. He was tucking money into his pocket and not looking back at the tubby, middle-aged, middle-class-looking driver of the car.

Sherlock thought his knees would collapse.

Another rentboy.

He wasn't entirely sure of this one's name, he was relatively new to the area, but Sherlock had definitely seen him before, wandering from one end of the square to the other, with the same look that Sherlock himself wore while on the pull; a mixture of desperation and a feigned nonchalance, searching the night for clients. The other boy lit a cigarette, the tiny flame lighting up his face in the darkness, and Sherlock instinctively reached for his pocket to get a smoke out himself. But his pocket was empty. In his haste to get out of the flat, he'd left them behind. For fuck's sake!

He licked his lips in anxiety, and the other rentboy caught his eye. There was the subtle lift of a chin in acknowledgement, and the barest hint of a smile.

"Smoke?" the other boy offered as he approached.

Sherlock nodded. "Name's Sherlock," he introduced himself.

"You're in the park a fair bit, aren't you?" the other boy inquired matter-of-factly. "Tommy." he stuck his hand out in a cheesy display of propriety.

Sherlock highly doubted that "Tommy"s name was really Tommy – a lot of the boys on the street used common names as pseudonyms, either to avoid attention from the law, or to avoid being chased up by family, friends or enemies. It was just easier to be anonymous sometimes.

Sherlock understood it, but he didn't desire it. His ego obstinately stood in the way of his becoming just another nameless shadow. Well, usually. Tonight he'd give almost anything to be able to just vanish, for everything to go away.

Tommy silently read Sherlock's ponderous expression. "Long night, huh?" he commented. "Run-in with the fuzz." Sherlock answered. It was some of the truth, after all.

Tommy nodded. "I'm not doing any more jobs tonight. Want to unwind?" he offered. There was no suggestiveness in his voice, Sherlock observed, none of the tell-tale signs that anything was wanted, anything expected. He shrugged. The night couldn't get any worse, surely.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: I realise that in canon, Sherlock's drugs of choice are caffeine, nicotine and cocaine, but I kind of figured that if I'm allowed artistic license to be able to turn the world's best and only consulting detective into a rentboy, I'm allowed artistic license to make him interested in heroin as well as cocaine. Hopefully this is ok with you guys.

Extra Warnings for This Chapter: Explicit drug use.

xxRegretteRienxx

* * *

It was a surprisingly short walk to Tommy's destination, although Sherlock initially didn't realise that this was where they were headed. To say the building was derelict would be an understatement. There was evidence of "condemned" signs hanging off multiple places on the building's front, but Tommy strode in confidently, so Sherlock followed without comment. Running thoughts through his head about what they were going to find in the depths of the building, Sherlock wasn't particularly surprised when they finally came across an open area, in which there were about a dozen people, slumped either against walls, or against each other, but all in a general cluster around two individuals, a man and a woman, with a small portable gas cooker lit on the floor between them.

"Tommy!" the man exclaimed congenially, an intoxicated smile taking over his features. He reached among the paraphernalia on the ground in front of him. "The usual?" Tommy nodded, and held out a handful of notes. Sherlock glanced at the bundle and quickly calculated, two twenties, a fifty and a ten: one hundred pounds. "And for your friend?" the dealer gestured towards Sherlock. "The same." Sherlock breezed confidently, holding out one of Allen's £100 notes. Allen always had been one of those clients who never quite grasped that rentboys and other people who did not wear three-piece suits as their daily attire were guaranteed to attract attention by flashing larger denominations around the place. Sherlock anticipated that the note would garner some reaction from the dealer or his partner, but the duo barely blinked at it, and handed over a small foil package the same size as Tommy's. They were either new to the game and treating Sherlock's cash with naïve trust, or more likely, judging from the irrefutable evidence that they had quite an established client base, were able to tell a fake note without the need for unwieldy devices such as UV lights.

Tommy had taken a seat on a small patch of ground near the gas cooker, and dug around, producing a spoon and a syringe; neither of which looked particularly sanitary, Sherlock noted darkly. He sat down next to Tommy anyway, slipping one arm out of his coat, and rolling up his shirtsleeve above the elbow. If sanitary practices had ever truly been a massive priority for him, they weren't anymore. Not tonight, anyway. The pain still coursing through his body took precedence over any other concerns. This was sure to dull it. He knew the logistics of heroin; possibly more so than anyone else present here, despite never having done it before. He'd never really been interested previously.

Delicately, he plucked a syringe from the clutter on the ground: there didn't seem to be as much congealed matter on this one. He passed it though the flame, then deftly removed the plunger, and allowed the liquid to drain out, while he measured a spoonful of the slightly off-white powder from the foil. He held the spoon over the flame, and watched the substance brown and liquify. With his other hand, he reassembled the syringe, and heated the needle again. He used the needle to swirl the contents of the spoon a little, then depressed the plunger, and carefully drew the liquid into the canister. He noted the cubic centimetres automatically as he did so, absently planning a procession of experiments to observe the effects of varying amounts of the narcotic on the capacity of human functioning. But it wouldn't be tonight. Tonight, pain would be killed, so that tomorrow could even be contemplated.

He took a slightly deeper breath than usual, and focused his attention on the fine network of pale blue lines winding down the underside of his arm. He superfluously tapped gently on his skin, not really needing greater clarity of where his veins were, but somewhat unable to stop the automatic action. His eyes flicked over to Tommy, who was already beginning to nod off a little. His lips tightened, and he pressed the needle gently against his skin.

It dimpled, then punctured, and he depressed the plunger again. Slowly, and carefully, and now he understood what people meant when they said; sensually. A warm flush stole over his body, originating not from the injection site, but from his genitals. "Guh –" His breath escaped irresistibly. His body shook with pleasure, and when he thought it was done, another wave struck him, and another. This...this, finally, was something enjoyable.

He drew on his inner practicality one final time for the night, and forced himself to remove the needle from his arm. He pocketed the remaining heroin, and staggered over to a sorry excuse for a couch near the wall. There was someone else on it, but he didn't care. One sleeve of his coat was still hanging off, but again, he didn't care. The heroin had him. The heroin was his master and mistress. He was no longer thinking in the spiteful, cynical, bitter and analytical way that he always did; he was feeling. Everything was sensation.

He couldn't possibly pay attention to the texture of the couch as well as the incredible feeling pumping through his veins right now. He closed his eyes so that the sights in the room wouldn't distract his, and concentrated on his groin. In his line of work, of course, he had experienced any number of orgasms, not to mention encouraged sexual release in his clients, but he was willing to bet that none of them had felt anywhere near as good as this did. He couldn't move, couldn't think, could barely remember to breathe the thrill overwhelming him was so commanding. He wanted to stroke himself, to see if he could possibly achieve a greater level of ecstasy than he already was, but he couldn't quite remember where his hands were.


	4. Chapter 4

**I would firstly like to apologise for the huge delay in updates – real life has been holding me back from my fun, but finally it has eased off a bit. Plus, the plot bunnies wanted me to do a horrible thing, and make this chapter begin with "Many Months Later..." but I decided against it, and forced myself to face up to the challenge of *shock* character development! So I hope you enjoy this chapter, I promise there is more to come much sooner than my previous gap between updates!**

**I would also like to point out that in my head, Sherlock is already living at 221B Baker Street – I hope that doesn't jar too nastily with canon for people's enjoyment of this story. Finally, Sherlock is hooking around Russell Square (Gardens). I don't know how realistic this is, having only visited London very briefly a couple of years ago, but I'm basically working with the assumption that *any* parklands are fair game for prostitution. However, if anyone can inform me that Russell Square is, for example, very heavily policed, I would be happy to change this detail.**

**Please read, enjoy, review! Thank you to all the people who have this story on alert! You are an abundance of little doses of joy in my inbox, keep it coming! :D**

**xxRegretteRienxx**

Sherlock didn't quite realise when the person who was originally on the couch left, and Tommy took their place, but he did know that when he began to emerge again from the depths of the sluggish and floaty and tingly and numb world of heroin-nirvana, and back to the real world with all its pain and cold and poverty and unpleasant memories, Tommy was there, starting to stretch and sit up and reach into his pockets for a cigarette. Sherlock wanted to cry as his dopamine levels disintegrated from the dizzying high back down to normal, but the urge was irrational, and he fought it with every fibre of his being.

It wasn't a simultaneous conclusion to their trip, as evidenced by Tommy offering Sherlock some smokes as well, and while Sherlock wanted them, and managed the momentous achievement of keeping his eyes fixed on the packet, couldn't quite coordinate himself enough in order to reach out and grab one. Tommy shrugged, he was in no rush, and sat the packet on the couch cushions between them as he luxuriated in drag after drag.

Finally, Sherlock's hands were returned to his control, and they sought out a cigarette. After his fist puff, Tommy turned to him with a loose grin.

"New experience, huh?" he commented companionably.

Sherlock considered lying, but didn't feel any real need to. He knew only too well, after the events earlier tonight, that his person was near-worthless. Why bother with the effort to defend it?

"What gave it away?" he asked, not meeting Tommy's eyes. Tommy was being friendly, Sherlock realised, and he wanted to keep the other man away as much as possible.

"Easy," Tommy laughed. "The shit hit you _hard_, mate. I mean, it's alright shit – wouldn't be using it otherwise – but it's not _that_ good. You fucken lightweight." he said, smiling, then stood. "Come on, let's fuck off."

Sherlock got to his feet before he realised what he was doing, and tried to compensate for the mindless obedience of his actions by striding out of the room in front of Tommy, pulling his coat sleeve back on over his bared arm.

The sun was up now, outside, and Sherlock squinted painfully in the rays, wondering vaguely what time it was.

It wasn't until they hit the corner of New Cavendish Street and Portland Place that Sherlock realised that Tommy seemed to be actually following him, not just sharing the walk.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked, the words coming out more harshly than he'd intended. And then, not harshly enough. He was yet undecided about how he felt towards Tommy at the moment. Tommy had so far expressed nothing but pleasantness and friendship towards Sherlock, but all the same, Sherlock had been _raped_ not even 24 hours ago – he didn't quite feel trusting towards others just now.

"Dunno." Tommy shrugged. "Assumed you had some place to crash." he explained.

"You're not coming over." Sherlock stated.

"Oh." was the crestfallen response.

Something about that one syllable struck Sherlock. He stopped, and faced Tommy.

"You're not homeless." He deduced aloud. Of course he wasn't – Tommy was a decent rent boy, able to charge a nice handful of pounds for his services, because he kept himself clean, and he wore clothing of a certain quality, not rags. On top of all this, he worked Russell Square, and heroin was his recreational drug of choice. If he was sustaining a heroin habit and was homeless, he would be entirely incapable of maintaining such a level of cleanliness and personal grooming, and would never garner any clients in Russell Square.

"No." Tommy confirmed. "I share a rubbish bedsit with a couple of mates over in Islington. It's just, I dunno...kinda crowded. They usually have birds over, so I can't really get a lot of kip, you know?"

Though his demeanour was still very matter-of-fact, Sherlock easily spotted the vague despair Tommy probably would have been able to disguise from other people.

"It's alright, I've got something to help me sleep today." Tommy tried to brush off his embarrassment at assuming he'd be going over to Sherlock's tapping his coat pocket.

Sherlock didn't need to have seen Tommy putting his unused stash in his pocket to realise what Tommy meant by the superficially off-handed comment.

He was silent for a moment, forcing his emotions into some sense.

"Islington?" he finally said, incredulously.

"On the edge closest," Tommy explained. "It's not that far."

"It's the other bloody side of Bloomsbury and then some!" Sherlock exclaimed, but not loudly, unwilling to draw attention from the general public who filled the footpath around them. "Take you at least an hour to get there, walking."

Tommy smiled wryly. "Thought I'd be able to find someone to give me a lift. Usually do." And his game face was on: chin tucked down so he had to look up through his lashes to meet Sherlock's gaze, lips moistened and slightly pouting, inviting.

Sherlock didn't doubt for a second that this technique usually worked for Tommy, but a shudder ran through him at the thought of _any_ prostitution at the moment. He stomped out his cigarette butt decisively.

"Come on." he ordered, crossing Portland Place briskly.

Tommy was still on the kerb, not having caught up with Sherlock's thought processes.

Understandable, really, when Sherlock wasn't entirely sure himself why he had changed his mind, or what he was going to do once he and Tommy arrived at Baker Street. "Come on!" he instructed again, calling over his shoulder, and Tommy sprang into action, jogging to catch up with Sherlock's pace.

"Erm...Ta." Tommy offered, uncertainly.

Sherlock looked over at the other man out of the corner of his eye. "Mm," he responded, noncommittally.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock didn't bother giving Tommy a tour of 221B once they entered the apartment: it wasn't in his nature to conduct hospitable treatment of others; besides which, his body was starting to protest its continued use without true rest, quite strongly.

Sherlock ducked into the bathroom to piss, and splashed water on his face after washing his hands. He leant on the sink for a moment, calming his breathing and trying to stop shaking. It had just hit him that he needed to work again tonight – he had no money stowed away, he'd never really been that sort of an organised, forward-looking person. Money always sort of figured itself out, most of the time. But today, he was suddenly reminded of the fact that rent was due, and therefore tricks would have to be turned.

The upsurge of bile and disgust shocked him. Normally he wasn't so susceptible to emotional reactions. He couldn't work tonight. He just couldn't. Not tonight. Just once.

Sherlock decided to huddle into his bed and consider this Catch-22; it was unlikely he would be able to actually sleep, under so much stress, but the comforting softness of the sheets would possibly calm him.

When he walked into his bedroom, however, he was startled by Tommy standing at the foot of his bed already, an expression of disturbed shock at the state of the bed on his face.

"Get out." Sherlock ordered, blocking out emotion, and moving to tear the dirty, stained – too stained, there was blood, there shouldn't be blood – sheets off the bed, and hoping that he actually had a spare, clean sheet somewhere in the apartment.

"Sorry mate," Tommy blurted awkwardly, but not leaving the room. "I didn't realise you brought clients back here. Just threw me, it did."

"Get out!" Sherlock repeated, with greater anger. He'd forgotten the state of the room, forgotten the story it would inevitably tell to anybody who saw it, hadn't thought how much he'd be affected by being in the room again. He was sobbing, not audibly, but his breath was definitely catching, and there was a terrible knot in his stomach that was near-paralysing. Tears stung his eyes, and he knew he wouldn't be able to hold it back much longer.

He didn't care about finding a new sheet now, he just wanted to cover himself with the duvet and block all of this out.

Tommy could just fuck off, sleep on the couch, sleep on the street, Sherlock didn't care right now. His emotions were taking him over, and there was nothing he could do about it. That wasn't right, wasn't normal. He curled up under the duvet, and buried his face in the pillow. It wouldn't completely make his crying inaudible, but it would muffle him so the sound wouldn't reach the living room, thank god.

But the edge of his bed sank down, revealing to him that Tommy had not actually retreated to the living room, as Sherlock had wished him to do. Enraged, Sherlock whirled on Tommy, glaring through his tears, teeth bared viciously.

"Fuck off!" he screamed, now, and swung punch after punch in Tommy's direction, just blindly lashing out, never managing to land a direct blow. Tommy deflected the strikes with open palms, clearly having enough experience with irrational rage outbursts to know when the anger was actually directed at him, as well as how to defend himself against flailing fists.

"Shh, mate, look, I'm sorry," Tommy said, catching Sherlock's wrists and holding them although Sherlock continued to fight him, vainly. "I'm really, really sorry for you, mate. Bad client, huh? Too rough, obviously."

Tommy's observation, stated without pity or malice, merely empathy and facts, utterly destroyed Sherlock's rage, and the fight left his body.

"I know what they're like, mate." Tommy stated, and Sherlock couldn't doubt him. "I'm gonna stay here til tonight, alright? I'm not gonna touch you or nothing, I'm just gonna be here."

Sherlock nodded mutely, eyes downcast. On one level, he actually did want Tommy to be there, and currently that was outweighing the vicious urge to push everyone away and nurse his injuries alone.

He lay down again, still curled up, and wrapped the duvet entirely around himself.

Tommy lay down on the bed as well, but, true to his word, didn't touch Sherlock at all. Sherlock couldn't feel any pressure on the edges of the duvet on the side where Tommy was lying, showing that the other man was truly keeping his distance.

In the very pit of his inescapably large pile of emotions tormenting him at the moment, Sherlock felt a granule of gratitude towards Tommy, and hoped irrationally, selfishly, inexplicably, that he would still be there when he woke.

**Hey there, readers! Hope this chapter wasn't too rubbish or implausible – we have a very confused protagonist at the moment, who I'm trying to write without reverting to clichés. Please let me know if it's working or not! And here's a promise to try and have the next chapter be a little longer and more action-y, I think. These emotion-exploration chapters are slowing the plot, methinks!**

**I really wanted to do this little A/N here to Britpick myself – I don't actually know whether "duvet" is an Englishism or an Americanism. I do know, however, that the word that I would choose "doona", is an Australianism, and therefore, inappropriate. So...should I be saying duvet or quilt or something else? **

**Feedback is love! **

**xxRegretteRienxx**


	6. Chapter 6

The side of the bed was empty and cold when Sherlock opened his eyes again, though he hadn't thought he'd slept. He wasn't really surprised at the vacant spot, more so at the hollowness it elicited in his heart.

He still didn't know what he was going to do about working tonight – maybe he could just be really careful and selective about the clients and jobs that he took? Although that had completely been successful when it came to Allen, he thought bitterly.

Restless, he wandered into the living room, wincing at the time displayed on the grandmother clock on the mantelpiece. He'd been in bed much longer than anticipated, and would likely miss some of the regular clients now, and have to pick up work with stragglers; the real perverts, and most often, drunkards pepped up with liquid courage, who'd never used rentboys before, and had ridiculous expectations when it came to prices and tolerable treatment of the workers.

Sherlock shuddered; it was not going to be an easy night.

"The fuck do you have a copper's card for, ey?" Tommy demanded, his voice cutting through the cloud of dread surrounding Sherlock at the moment. He entered the living room from the kitchen, and Sherlock was so surprised that he was still there, it took him a moment to remember what policeman's card Tommy could possibly be referring to. Ah. Lestrade. Detective Inspector, if he remembered the details correctly, and he normally did.

"It's not – " he restrained himself from saying 'what you think,' as it irritated him no end when others said that to him – as if _they_ knew what was running through his mind? " – an investigation or a bust or anything," he explained, knowing that what it _was_, was stranger than what it _wasn't_.

"A client?" Tommy surmised unexpectedly, eyebrows raised, all intrigue and excitement.

Clients with sway were highly coveted in their line of work – there were near countless advantages to such arrangements. Sherlock inclined his head in vague assent to Tommy's question, and Tommy let out a low whistle.

"No wonder you can afford this place on your own then," and Sherlock shrugged.

"I get by," he excused it. "Work every night, anyways."

Tommy nodded in understanding. "Tonight?" he asked, neutrally. Sherlock nodded sharply, but didn't make eye contact, and moved away from Tommy, retreating into the kitchen.

He opened and shut cupboards, not with any intent: he wasn't hungry and there wasn't anything edible in the apartment anyway. Even the coffee had solidified in its jar, he realised. He'd probably been subsisting on cigarettes a little too long, he mused, but didn't file away an intention to go grocery shopping. What was the point?

Tommy followed him into the kitchen, again ignoring Sherlock's avoidance strategy. "Are you alright to, though? You seem pretty fucked up right now. Strung out, you know?" His voice was gentle, but prying, and it aggravated Sherlock.

"You don't even know me," he growled, hands fisted and pressed firmly against the benchtop, still facing away from Tommy and his unasked-for kindness.

"No, but a broken person is a broken person," Tommy ventured, and Sherlock couldn't be bothered to argue the circular logic.

Tommy tapped Sherlock's shoulder lightly, and Sherlock stiffened at the unexpected touch. He attempted to disguise his recoil by turning around to confront Tommy, who held his arms open, palms up.

"I'm gonna give you a hug, is that ok?" Tommy asked, already moving forward. "Can I hug you?"

Sherlock didn't reply, but allowed the contact. Tommy kept it minimal, held his body away from Sherlock's, and only applying light pressure with his hands on Sherlock's back. Sherlock could break the embrace with ease anytime he wanted. He suddenly felt awkward with his arms, ungainly, and didn't know where to put them. This wasn't normal – he was a rentboy, for fuck's sake! Hugging was the _least_ of the activities he got up to on a nightly basis!

Tommy drew back after a moment. "No way you can work tonight, mate," he observed. "Can't even fake a hug – how are you gonna fake a fuck?"

"I can do it, I'm fine!" Sherlock protested, desperately.

Tommy laughed, not unkindly. "I don't think so. You'll get the shit beaten out of you, trying to charge people for that frigid act." Tommy moved to leave the apartment. "Take a night off, mate – one fella to another. It'd be a shame to hear about another John Doe rentboy's body winding up in a gutter somewhere."

Sherlock wasn't arguing anymore, he saw Tommy's point. "I can't, though," he admitted, finally. "I've got to make rent."

Tommy stopped and turned back. "We all gotta. I'm not a fucken bank."

Sherlock nodded, morose. "I wasn't asking – " he tried to explain.

Tommy sighed. "But I'm gonna be working tonight, so I guess cash isn't as tight just now." he pondered for a moment. "Tell you what. Still got that scag?"

Sherlock nodded again, not entirely following, but dug the foil out of his coat pocket. "I had a hit," he mentioned, unnecessarily, but feeling like he should say something.

"Here," Tommy said, pressing a note into Sherlock's hand, swiftly vanishing the packet into his own palm.

Sherlock looked at the note. 100 pounds. "But I had a hit," he said again, protesting, not wanting to rip Tommy off.

"A hit doesn't make a huge dent on that amount, mate," Tommy explained. "I'm rounding it up. Now shut the fuck up or I'll take the money back and the drugs, and you'll never see me again."

Sherlock shut his mouth and tucked the note into his pocket. "Thanks." he mumbled.

"Money for letting me stay over, anyways," Tommy excused it.

"Here, though," he said suddenly, stepping forward again and untwisting the foil. "Lick your finger and dip it in the powder," he instructed, demonstrating.

Sherlock did so, and tried not to get caught up in the fascinating details of the powder clustered on his finger. He'd learnt that most people in this business found it rude if he didn't at least pretend to be paying them attention when they were speaking to him.

"Now lick it," Tommy said, showing as well as telling, "Takes the edge off."

Again, Sherlock obeyed, and almost immediately felt less aches and pains in his body, although on some level he knew that this was purely a psychosomatic effect – there was no way the drugs were acting so quickly.

"You're alright," Tommy stated, stashing the foil away in his clothing. "Catch you later." And he pecked the corner of Sherlock's mouth before Sherlock realised what was happening and could react, and left the apartment.

It seemed quiet now, although they hadn't really been making a lot of noise. Just...empty, and not in the calming way it usually was.


	7. Chapter 7

**Sorry, this chapter is less action than character study...it might be a bit dull to read. Hopefully not too bad, though! And bear with it, the next chapter is promised soon, bringing with it an interesting confrontation! (at least, I hope it's interesting)**

**Reviews are love!**

**xxRegretteRienxx**

Sherlock stood in the living room uncertainly for a moment, then shed his clothing as he walked to the bathroom.

It was a longer shower than he usually took, but then he didn't normally have such busy nights, and he kept finding new sore places, which meant his typically perfunctory process was delayed as he would pause, wince, gasp at the pain; sometimes supporting himself against the sides of the shower cubicle as sobs wracked his body.

Tommy was right. There was no way he would've lasted a shift tonight. But that didn't solve the other problem, Sherlock mused, finally twisting the taps off and wrapping a towel around his waist. He ignored the cruel chill of the night pervading the apartment, and located his coat and trousers where he'd carelessly tossed them.

Hands still damp, he rifled through the pockets and located the money from Tommy and Allen. 250 pounds, all told. He needed 400 for rent alone – the landlady cut him a pretty good deal – but then there were utilities to pay as well. Fortunately, his habits and lifestyle meant that these expenses were fairly minimal. 150 pounds, then, and beg off paying utilities for a few days.

He scrounged around the living room, pulling the cushions off the sofas and couch and discarding them haphazardly on the floor. They weren't his furniture, anyway. One of those prefurnished apartments, which kind of worked, because Sherlock would never bother to go to the store and get himself these things. Too much hassle. Far too much. And this way, he had a bed. It was a nice change to his previous abodes.

The living room yielded 72.50 pounds, which was fantastic, way more than Sherlock had expected – a crumpled piece of paper in the corner had revealed itself to be a letter containing two 20 pound notes. He preferred not to dwell on who the letter had been from; the fact that his family knew his current address without his telling them filled him with an indescribable rage.

Kitchen wouldn't have money, he passed that room over, and headed back upstairs to his bedroom.

He was mostly dry now, having dripped all over the living room carpet, and so he pulled some clothes at random out of the drawers, and then rooted at the back of his sock drawer for a near-full plastic bag he knew to be there. He'd been lucky enough to avoid the attention of the law at this apartment so far, but experiences at previous addresses drove him to be cautious and secretive.

The bong was less easy to stow away, usually, but another relic from a previous tenant, a modern-art vase, suitably tall and black and nondescript, served the purpose of hiding place quite nicely.

He sat on the edge of the bed as he packed the bong, deliberately facing away from the pile of bedclothes still on the floor. A couple of tokes to stop him shaking, and then he'd keep looking for cash. There had to be some in here.

The grandmother clock chimed midnight in the living room, and Sherlock dragged himself to his feet with a groan. Those sheets had to go, he decided, and cast them in the hallway just outside the bedroom door. Miraculously, he found another sheet bundled in the bottom of the wardrobe, and while he doubted its cleanliness, it didn't smell _too_ bad, and didn't seem to have too many stains – at least, not any that he couldn't tolerate.

He started making the bed when a memory struck him, and he shoved the mattress so it was on the diagonal, revealing a corner of the base.

Fuck _yes_! Sherlock almost exclaimed aloud, seeing the collection of notes he shoved under the mattress when the occasional urge to put money securely away struck him.

He grabbed them together and strode into the living room, pooling the cash. 437.50 pounds, _fuck yes_, Sherlock thought again, grabbing a scrap of paper and scrawling a note to the landlady.

He kept the extra cash on the living room table – might be an idea to still get that extension on the utilities – and folded the other money inside the note, clomped downstairs and tucked the bundle under the ridiculous Bakelite phone she insisted on keeping on the small table in the entranceway.

He clambered noisily back upstairs, and had a celebratory smoke, the pot settling his jarred nerves a little, but not nearly enough. He realised he wanted the heroin again, and remembered with disappointment that Tommy had bought it off him so that he could afford the rent. He grumbled in annoyance, and determined to head out in a minute to see if he could find Tommy again, and buy back some of the score. But in a minute.

He stretched out on the mattress, not caring it was still askew, and ran his hands absently through his hair. The sensation was brilliant, relaxing – nothing at all like when most of the clients grabbed it, too roughly, too forcefully, causing pain as they dictated where he should put his head, his mouth. He always had to fight back tears, sometimes had to fight back rage.

Occasionally, he could distract them by bringing them closer to the edge with a tiny scrape of teeth, or a sensuous growl or hum which caused sensation to shoot all the way through their pleasure centres, leaving them gasping and limp with desire. Others would react more...passionately to such tactics, and rather than releasing him would drag harder, forgetting or not caring that it was another human being in their grasp.

Sherlock took it; he had to, but he would always grimly tally on an extra charge to the services as a result. Truth be told, he was too sharp, too proud; he didn't fit the typical profile of a rentboy. But it was this very cleverness and vanity which meant that he was able to fake it, night after night, fucking convincingly, and brilliantly fucking.


	8. Chapter 8

"Sherlock!"

The shout broke him out of his reverie; had he fallen asleep? It was still dark outside, no clues there. He really should get a clock in his bedroom. Or find his mobile, but that was beyond consideration for now.

"Sherlock!" again, and he couldn't place the voice. Outside, though – he moved to the window and leaned out.

Tommy was under the streetlight, waving madly. He seemed...manic? But Sherlock couldn't be sure; his data on Tommy's typical behaviour was severely limited.

"Shut up!" he called out hastily, not wanting the neighbours to be aware of his nocturnal activities and make complaints. "Come to the front door," he suggested, and made his way through the apartment himself to meet Tommy there.

He'd barely opened the door when Tommy tumbled in, all limbs and eagerness and energy and telling Sherlock something excitedly, but all Sherlock could think of was the fact that Mrs Harris*, his landlady's apartment was right next to the entranceway. He didn't want to get on her bad side when he was asking her for the favour of financial leniency.

"Shh," he hushed Tommy urgently, and gestured for the other man to follow him upstairs.

Tommy followed clumsily, tripping over the stairs in the dim light, but Sherlock knew that Mrs Harris was more sensitively attuned to _voices_ at night rather than stumbling footsteps, having passed by her apartment at all hours making a racket with his tread and not disturbing her, but her door swinging open rapidly one time when he'd entered the building early in the morning, engaged in a conversation on his phone. _"Would you be so kind as to keep it down?" _she'd requested forcefully, and Sherlock had apologised profusely, less out of feeling any actual remorse, and more out of not wanting the bother of having to find a new apartment.

Sherlock didn't stop or switch the light on until they reached his bedroom, surmising that the empty floor between Mrs Harris' apartment and his room would provide enough of a muffling effect on their voices so as not to be disruptive.

"Shit! Your room!" Tommy exclaimed, alerting Sherlock to the fact that he'd forgotten to straighten it up.

"Get a client in after all, did you?" Tommy inquired, automatically moving to help Sherlock correct the mattress' position.

"No," Sherlock began to explain, but Tommy wasn't listening. This was blatantly obvious from the way that he had stepped right up against Sherlock's body, clasping his arsecheeks in his hands, and face upturned alluringly.

Sherlock inhaled sharply, surprised at the directness, but confusion prevented him from fighting or moving away. He felt a certain attraction to Tommy, despite everything, and it was clouding his judgment regarding how he should react right now.

"I kept thinking about you all night," Tommy declared huskily, eyes shadowed. "Every client I was with turned into you in my mind," he whispered, pulling Sherlock fast against him. Sherlock emitted a quiet whimper, and couldn't say whether it was desire, fear or pain, as all the feelings clashed within him.

"It made my entire night _very_ enjoyable, Tommy continued, "but I had to come back here and get the real thing." He finally dispensed with the teasing, and caught Sherlock's lips with his own.

Sherlock made to jerk away – the contact was too much yet, Allen was still on his mind – but Tommy's hold was firm, and instead of breaking apart, the two collapsed in a tangle on the bed. Sherlock caught Tommy's shoulder with his hands, though, and managed to force a little distance between them. He examined Tommy's pupils urgently, trying to identify what was going on. Pupils entirely blown. That meant arousal or narcotics, and dammit! – Sherlock didn't know which.

He decided to risk it. Unable to stop his voice from wavering, he asked, "Have you taken anything tonight?" hoping against hope for an answer in the negative.

Tommy sighed exasperatedly, continuing his attempts to minimise the distance between them.

"What, you don't want me if I'm a fucked-up junkie slut?" he demanded, fisting Sherlock's shirt in his hands. "I've got news for you; that's exactly what you are as well!" and he pressed his lips against Sherlock's mouth again.

Sherlock sobbed as he relinquished his struggles against Tommy: he knew, he knew, he knew...he was worthless, he should be grateful that anyone wanted to be with him ever. Tommy wanted to be with him now, and Sherlock should just let him; Tommy's life was just as fucked up as Sherlock's. They both needed someone, and right now, they were each other's someone.

He lay back and allowed his body to relax and respond to Tommy's caresses, limbs pliant when Tommy began pulling his clothing off.

He cast his eyes upwards when they were both naked, unable to deal with the sight, the _reality_, but reassured when tonight, there was a crinkle of a condom wrapper. He started, however, sitting up a little, when the gentle latex suffocation appeared on his cock, applied by Tommy's busy, busy hands.

"Wha – " he couldn't contain the confused syllable from tumbling out of his mouth.

"Shh," Tommy hushed him now, leaning forwards with his next kiss, so Sherlock was gently forced to lie back down on the bed.

Tommy needed no preparation to take him; he was still loose and lubed from his work earlier that night, yet his anal muscles were perfectly toned, meaning his was able to provide Sherlock's cock just the right amount of resistance and friction to wonderfully bring him off.

Sherlock groaned a deep, guttural, extended sound of pleasure that he wouldn't have believed himself capable of, at Tommy's self-impalement.

Tommy chuckled. "Oh, _good_," he murmured happily, and began moving his hips rhythmically.

His motion was smooth, controlled, and entirely intolerable, Sherlock decided, spontaneously grabbing Tommy's cock and stroking rapidly. He was so close himself, that his usual technique went right out the window, but apparently his enthusiasm struck a nerve with Tommy, and caused the other man to choke and his rhythm entirely failed.

Unexpectedly, Tommy came first, and the combined effects of his convulsions and his come all over Sherlock's chest, meant that Sherlock couldn't help but follow closely behind.

Tommy's buzzing energy vanished now, and he collapsed onto Sherlock for a moment, catching his breath, before he could bring himself to slide off Sherlock's cock with a subdued noise of regret. A part of Sherlock's brain told him that the sound was a little put-on, but he pushed the thought away. Plus, he could not compose himself enough to question it aloud.

He sighed a little at the loss of warmth and pressure around his cock, but otherwise in this moment, was truly, blissfully happy for the second time in as many days...Allen had not won.

Tommy removed the condom from Sherlock in a practiced gesture, and tied it in a knot, but merely dropped it to the side of the bed, not knowing where a bin was, nor having the inclination to find out. He stretched out on his back next to Sherlock.

"Oi," he murmured, flopping a hand onto Sherlock's chest to get his attention.

"Mm?" Sherlock responded lazily, almost dozed off.

"90 quid, mate." Tommy stated, deadpan.

Sherlock cracked one eye open to determine whether Tommy was having him on. He grinned, twistedly. "You cheap fuck," he chuckled, and allowed himself to drift off into a satisfied slumber, ignoring the dried tears on his face.

*** A/N: Not a typo, I'll explain later.**

**What do you think, dear readers? Good? Bad? And by "good", I mean "fucked up, but plausibly so". I wanted to make things complicated, but I don't want it to be unbelievable. So please review, and let me know whether I've completely ruined everything!**

**In other news, I have to admit that it seems I'm a total n00b, and can't upload more than 15 documents at a time. Seeing as this story alone is now 8 documents, and I have 5 other documents uploaded as well, this is making things problematic for adding further chapters/stories. Can anyone help? Otherwise I'm going to have to do some rearranging of my posts, and that's such a hassle... Please PM me if you know how to fix this situation!**

**Thank you beautiful people!**

**xxRegretteRienxx**


	9. Chapter 9

**Hello, dear readers, old and new! Sorry for the delay, but I did warn you! Plot has been well and truly laid out, so all I need to do is pad it out with porn XD There will be more posted in the next few hours – I'm in the midst of writing and trying to figure out when the next chapter break should be. Hmm. **

**I hope you enjoy this chapter – please read and review!**

**xxRegretteRienxx**

He woke with a start, heart pounding, the last traces of some horrible dream swiftly escaping his memory, but the quietude of the outside world – Baker St was settling down to rest for the night – reassured him that whatever had tormented his unconscious mind was not here in the real world.

Tommy was still next to him this time, and Sherlock stared for moment, just beginning to realise how little he actually knew about the other man.

He wondered how much he could figure out without asking, without waking him.

Physical features were easy, and didn't really lend a lot to understanding another's character, Sherlock knew that only too well, but nonetheless.

Asleep, Tommy appeared younger than he did while awake, full of bravado, drive, and a strong self-assertion – which might only be an act, considering Sherlock was able to make the man's certainty vanish just the night before. Or had it been two nights previous? Time was escaping, inconstant.

It was hard to tell with particularly good actors what the true person behind the portrayals was – especially since half of them didn't know their 'true self' themselves. But age was not able to be feigned in sleep, and besides, Tommy's hands, softer and more delicate than Sherlock's own, did not only depict someone unfamiliar with manual labour, but also indisputably betrayed youth.

The hands in question were gently curled, much as Tommy's entire body was, facing towards Sherlock but in on himself, not affectionately wrapped around the person with whom he was sharing a bed.

That was helpful, Sherlock could surmise two things from the pose – firstly, a familiarity with non-bed sleeping surfaces, and secondly, a disinclination towards intimacy, even at a very fundamental level. Though the intimacy aspect was hardly a deductive leap, considering that most people in their industry had some sort of atypical approach to relationships with others.

Sherlock didn't quite know what his own position regarding human interactions was – although he felt emotions most of the time and could understand others' emotions, sometimes he had to remind himself what was and what wasn't socially acceptable behaviour, and to _express_ his emotions appropriately. He was certain, from observing both members of his family and people he encountered in general, that this was not a 'normal' way to experience the world, and that socially adaptive emotions and behaviours came a lot easier to the majority of the rest of the world.

His _job_ was so much easier. He didn't have to _connect emotionally_, and the clients didn't expect him to. It was much easier to distract them through some form of physical stimulation, and even the clients with the greatest curiosity about something he did that was particularly cold or stand-offish, were suddenly incapable of coherent thought, and were suddenly incapable of caring anymore whether their fuck was smiling at them with appropriately-happy eyes, sceptical eyes, or indeed, any eyes at all. While laying back and screaming, shouting, lip-biting _bliss_, little else seemed to matter.

Tommy murmured, and pawed a little in his sleep, making Sherlock think of a puppy dreaming.

He felt a sudden urge to leave and get away from this man who seemingly had so much influence over Sherlock's decisions. He had convinced Sherlock to let him stay overnight last night, convinced Sherlock to stay home rather than working, to let him come into the apartment again later on in the night, to fuck him without paying…and what for? For a little hit of heroin? For a flash of sparkly green eyes, some attractive pink lips, and a lock of reddish-blonde hair?

That wasn't how Sherlock worked, and he felt sickened.

He stood, and strode into the bathroom – he didn't run, although it was a rapid pace, it was certainly measured.

Perhaps it was more rapid than an objective viewer would deem necessary, but Sherlock was glad of his prompt arrival to the bathroom when his legs gave way, and he wound up kneeling in front of the toilet bowl, long fingers clutching the porcelain for all they were worth, and dry-retching painfully.

There was nothing to throw up, didn't his body know that?

Cold sweat tormented him, and when the uncontrollable heaving choking mess was over, he was shivering violently. A hot shower. Lots of soap. That would clear him up. Get this all-over sticky feeling off him. It had to work.

The bathroom was filled with steam, and his skin was red, but he was still scrubbing furiously, when the curtain slid over and another body was in the recess behind him, touching him, kissing his shoulderblade.

He whirled, enraged, but lost his footing, as one is wont to do in a shower, and his arm which had been striking out at the intruder, was suddenly grabbing and holding him close instead.

A soft chuckle was elicited, he felt it emanate from the other's throat and reverberate through his chest – Tommy, for it was Tommy, was standing too close for Sherlock's liking.

And his hands were everywhere! Grabbing his arse in the most provocative manner, as though he thought he had the _right_, without even the slightest consideration of payment!

It clashed harshly with Sherlock, with what he wanted from Tommy, and he briefly entertained the thought of hurling Tommy against the wall of the shower: it would surely split his skull open, or at the very least daze him, and then he would fall, most likely causing irreparable, if not fatal, damage to his spine.

But he didn't follow through.

Partly because dealing with the subsequent dead body wasn't something he felt he had the energy for right now, and partly because it wasn't entirely clear at the moment what direction the shower walls were in, from this peculiar vantage point.

"Tommy…" he whispered, unsure whether Tommy would hear him over the running water of the shower – when had the shower become so goddamn loud? It was _pounding_ down!

"Good morning to you, too," Tommy said in reply, his lips fastened somewhere around the base of Sherlock's neck, mistaking Sherlock's racing pulse, shortness of breath and loss of balance as being a positive aftereffect of his joining Sherlock in the shower, rather than a negative one.

Sherlock's entire weight against him a moment later soon made it abundantly clear that this was not the case.

"Fuck!" Tommy exclaimed, but to his credit, kept his balance, and managed to stop Sherlock from falling, which was no mean feat considering Sherlock's gangly limbs trying to off-balance him every which way.

With as much assistance as Sherlock could provide, Tommy managed to manoeuvre Sherlock so that he was sitting on the edge of the bathtub.

"Can you stay there for a minute?" he checked, cautiously.

Sherlock slumped against the wall next to the bath, using that to keep himself from toppling back, barely noticing how cold it was against his skin until Tommy came back from turning the shower off and wrapped a towel around his shoulders instead.

"You're not gonna be sick, are you?" Tommy asked in concern, and Sherlock shook his head, a humourless smile crossing his face. He felt miserable.

"You just need something to perk you up – wait a minute, I know – " and he was off again.

Left alone, Sherlock felt a sudden pang and couldn't wait for Tommy to return. He didn't want Tommy to ever leave. What the fuck was wrong with him? He didn't care especially for the other man, but if he left, he'd be stuck all alone – he probably would have hurt himself badly, falling over in the shower like that; but then again, if Tommy hadn't startled and enraged him, he wouldn't have jumped and slipped. He leant forward, propping his elbows on his knees, heels of his hands pressed into his eyes, trying to force rational thoughts into his brain.

And Tommy was back, kneeling in front of him – the whole scene must have looked like some bizarre ritual offering, as Tommy held out a small tinfoil package on upturned palm.

"Open up," he said in a singsong voice, but Sherlock eyed the contents dubiously.

It wasn't heroin, that much was obvious. That meant any variety of other drugs available on the streets, which took the form of a whitish powder. Sherlock couldn't tell which. He wanted to just get a taster: the tip of his finger, and the tip of his tongue, but even if he did, he was aware that he wouldn't know the taste, it would just be a mishmash of chemicals.

Besides, his current state of melancholy paralysed him from actually following through with any of these thoughts. Maybe if he just stayed here long enough, he'd die, and the world would go away and stop causing him to experience such horrible things all the time.

"It's crack," Tommy explained, trying to prompt Sherlock to move, to respond. "It's better if you smoke it or stick it in ya, but you can just lick it, and you'll get a nice buzz."

Sherlock knew that, he knew all of that, and more – the information racing behind his eyes as he looked at the powder now, _Cocaine, benzoylmethyl ecgonine, frequently administered in multiple doses over the course of a day, unlike heroin, which one hit can cause a state of physical listlessness for hours. Causes: high energy and euphoria._

Euphoria. He'd see about that. And he leant forward; his finger still moist from the shower and the steam floating in the air – a smile lit up Tommy's face, his gift was being accepted.

Tiny crystals fastened themselves along the length of Sherlock's finger, and he stuck the entire thing in his mouth to suck them off, not noticing the excitement this gesture elicited on Tommy's face, but definitely noticing the younger man invading his personal space again, leaning in intrusively, demandingly, for a kiss.

The taste of powdered chemicals on his tongue was confused with the taste of Tommy: musky, not a clean, minty-fresh veneer, but not unpleasant, like the sight of a hobo with gingivitis makes one imagine. He seemed to have a certain natural sweetness which made him appetising, and before Sherlock realised it, he was kissing him back, and holding his head in place, lest he back off again and leave him alone.

Tommy giggled, actually giggled, like a child, and easily broke out of Sherlock's hold, but didn't move away; he took a large pinch of the crack and placed it far back on his tongue, kept his mouth opened as he leant in to Sherlock again, and Sherlock did his damned best to get as much of the luscious powder away from him.

Ages later, and yet too soon, Tommy concluded, "Well, you're obviously feeling better. Come and get breakfast with me before work."

Sherlock scrambled to his feet to follow Tommy back into the bedroom. They dressed rapidly – clothing was less of a concern in their work, and more just _how_ the clothing clung to their bodies, and exactly _where_it clung to – and were out of the apartment within a minute.


	10. Chapter 10

It wasn't until they were seated actually in the café a couple of blocks away from the apartment that the incongruity of having a breakfast-style meal at this decidedly un-breakfast-like time of day struck Sherlock, and a giggling fit overtook him.

"It's a world gone topsy-turvy!" he exclaimed gleefully at Tommy's raised eyebrow, and although Tommy joined in, recognising the hilarity, the waitress was less amused.

She seemed intrigued, however, by their lengthy demands for numerous breakfast items – Sherlock ordered three different plates of eggs – scrambled, fried, and Benedict* - simply because he couldn't decide which of the first two to settle on, and he'd never tried the third. It took them a few minutes to explain that they wanted two _pots_ of coffee as well as a cup of tea – Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he'd had a good cup, but Tommy wasn't a fan, saying that if he wanted a caffeine fix, he wanted to _feel_ it, not have it creep up on him.

While the waitress conveyed their order to the kitchen, Sherlock and Tommy took a brief intermission in the bathroom – Tommy wanted a pick-me-up, and had brought a straw from the container on the café table for this express purpose, and Sherlock didn't want to be alone in the dining area; it was somewhat terrifying in there without someone looking out for him.

Tommy sniffed a dose this time, using the fake-razorblade necklace that he wore to grind the powder to an even finer texture beforehand, and his eyes watered, but his expression was relieved, satisfied…energetically blissful.

Sherlock watched him intently, trying not to grind his teeth, and blurted out, "What is it like when you do that? Is it good? Is it better? Does it hurt?"

Tommy smiled, partly in gentle amusement at Sherlock's insane questions, partly because the drug held him in thrall.

"Try it." he suggested, sliding the packet over. "One nostril. Don't try and do both at once like a fucking crazy Hoover." he advised, laughing at his brilliance and the hilarity of the idea.

"Hoove! Hoooove!" Sherlock exclaimed, imitating the machine's low hum, and Tommy descended into hysterics, clutching at the sink top, at his sides, at Sherlock, to try and find some stability as he was in grave danger of entirely collapsing.

Sherlock gently batted his hands away, focusing on replicating Tommy's previous motions, and getting this 'snorting' business right.

It was totally worth it.

_This_ was the best thing ever, and he stretched out rapturously as his body thrummed, blood rushing this new dose to every extremity.

Tommy paid no heed to Sherlock's enjoyment of the chemicals; having gasped his breath back he was now attending to the wait of Sherlock's trousers; teasing and tickling his fingers at the meeting-point of skin and cloth, but soon wanting much more.

"Come on," he growled, impatient, and dragged Sherlock into a cubicle.

Apparently he was completely unconcerned about anyone walking in on this, either, as he left the door open, and Sherlock was soon drawn to the total sensation of Tommy's mouth now at the right level to reach the target area he was previously only able to torment with his hands.

The effects of his mouth were far worse, far better, and Sherlock was grateful he had the closer walls of the cubicle to prop himself up with.

Tommy didn't waste a lot of time on Sherlock's hips, sensitive though this skin was, he had another objective in mind, and he unzipped Sherlock's trousers to reveal it.

Ah. There. One red cock, pre-hardened, hot, and slightly moist. Delicious.

Tommy engulfed it, causing Sherlock to simultaneously buck and stagger.

Blowjobs, giving or receiving, were nothing out of the ordinary for Sherlock, but right now he just …every corner of his being jostled for him to pay them attention.

"We're sparking!" his synapses shouted, and he wasn't sure which ones. "We're contracting!" his muscles declared, "And expanding!" another group chipped in, determined not to miss out. "Over here!" another nerve cluster chorused, and altogether it was a regular cacophony.

Sherlock couldn't take it.

Hands were on his hips, though, holding firm and steadying him. Release from the prison of overwhelmsion.

Tommy had a deceptively strong grip, and a determined air that echoed in his movements, running his tongue from base to tip, luxuriating in the sensation just as much as Sherlock was, now able to focus on the top of Tommy's head as he thoroughly explored every feature of Sherlock's genitalia, building an oral map – he was so devoted to this task, he could probably advise a reconstruction of his bits, based on mouth-memory alone.

He paused, and Sherlock wanted to say, "Don't stop…Please…" but his voice was faltering and malfunctioning, and so he only whined.

"Good?" Tommy smiled, and Sherlock wanted him to never leave, wanted him to smile like that at him every day.

Tommy stood, gently but firmly pressing Sherlock against the cubicle walls, and Sherlock gulped, wanting and needing Tommy to get back down, to fulfil the promise laid out by his lips and darting, stroking, devilish tongue.

He worked his jaw, trying to get the words to come.

"I _said_, 'good?'" Tommy repeated, threateningly, demanding that Sherlock answer, and his hands gripping Sherlock's biceps weren't gentle, weren't caressing, and the bites he inflicted on his neck weren't playful – these were going to bruise.

"Yes!" Sherlock finally cried out, and a rush of strength came to him. He pushed forwards, thudding Tommy into the opposite wall of the cubicle – apparently, not hard enough to cause pain, but definitely loudly.

"Yes, yes, yes…" Sherlock chanted, grinding his cock against Tommy's hip.

"Show me." Tommy commanded in a soft voice, and Sherlock opened his eyes wide.

_Of course. Instantly._

He practically tore Tommy's jeans open, and shoved his hand down. He wanted to please, to do well, to keep Tommy with him, so he concentrated on coordination, on technique, on the creation of pleasure.

Long, dexterous fingers were to his extreme advantage in handjobs, and he was able to amaze clients by stimulating multiple, unexpected parts of their nether regions simultaneously, when most rentboys would need both hands to complete the same task. The sensation, therefore, was unfamiliar, yet still highly satisfying, and it entertained Sherlock no end to see a client's face express shock and arousal in competition – all because of him.

"Jesus!" Tommy shouted, and it echoed around the bathroom.

"Sherlock." Sherlock informed him gently, inarguably, and Tommy got the hint straight away.

"Oh fuck, Sherlock fuck fuck fuck Sherlock fuck…" he was still grabbing Sherlock's biceps in a painful deathgrip, but not in a display of dominance anymore – now it was desperation, and Sherlock didn't mind that one bit.

There was a second advantage to having long fingers when giving a handjob: the sheer amount of skin-to-skin contact that could be made; Sherlock's hand could literally envelop Tommy's cock with ease. Sherlock judged the size of Tommy's pupils, judged how slack his jaw was, judged the sheen of sweat over his skin, and decided to incorporate this technique now.

Tommy's posture changed; he straightened up, arched his back, cried out with a delicious "Agh!"

Sherlock knew the pose, knew the excitement that was being caused, knew exactly how he could add to this current scenario.

He stuck two fingers of his free left hand into his mouth, hastily, precautionarily; to cause Tommy pain right now would ruin everything. They were slicked, and he slid them down the back of Tommy's pants.

He wasn't surprised that one finger penetrated the other man easily, and two fingers fit also with little difficulty; rather, surprise was elicited in Tommy at the degree of manipulation Sherlock undertook with his left hand – many people were reluctant or frightened to move their fingers around too much.

The entire time, Sherlock applied a regular pressure to Tommy's perineum with his 3rd and 4th fingers, his 1st and 2nd fingers in perpetual motion inside Tommy's arse, creating a blinding blaze when contact was made with his prostate, and still, with his right hand, there was relentless pressure on, and firm pulling and encouragement of his cock.

How was anyone meant to keep it together under such a barrage, cocaine or no? Tommy had no chance, couldn't hold himself back – didn't, in fact, want to. So he let go, and his heartfelt expression of release was magnified to epic proportions by the acoustics of the bathroom.

When he came back to himself, he was still feeling a thrill at the thought that someone in the cafe might have heard them, and would know the brilliance of what they were up to.

Sherlock's hands were out of Tommy's trousers now, one tipping his chin up so he could access his mouth, one cradling the back of his head. He drew away momentarily to grab some air, and Tommy saw how flushed his cheeks were, how dark his eyes, and suddenly realised that he'd left something unfinished. He knelt, and Sherlock leant heavily against the cubicle wall with a quiet little moan of anticipation and relief to be getting some more attention.

Remembering how uncontrollable Sherlock had been earlier, Tommy placed his hands on Sherlock's hips again, firmly holding him in place as he sucked energetically.

Once before, he'd had his head hit against a wall because the client had been overenthusiastic, and it had turned out badly for all: Tommy particularly, sustaining a sore throat, a lump on the head, _and_ no payment for the job – clients were generally unwilling to part with cash if teeth became too heavily involved in blowjobs – even if it was an involuntary result of being hit on the back of the head.

So, Tommy was now understandably cautious. Not so cautious as to remove from Sherlock's experience, however. Sherlock came with a groan and a sigh, and Tommy held him steady for the second time that night, pushing Sherlock backwards a little so that he could stand up again.

He tucked himself back into his pants, made some effort to straighten himself up, then assisted Sherlock to do the same. Sherlock opened his eyes at the contact, and smile somewhat bashfully, contentedly.

"Yum." Tommy stated, just before kissing him soundly, knowing that the taste of Sherlock's come was still coating the inside of his mouth.

"Delicious, I'd say," Sherlock agreed happily, and now his grin was cheeky, teasing. "You fucking came on my pants," he then pointed out moodily, and Tommy glanced down. So he had. And the splash was beginning to harden already – there would be a bit of effort required to wipe that off.

"I'm so sorry," Tommy said, not at all meaning a word of it, and kissing Sherlock again.

"People will think I'm some kind of whore!" Sherlock pouted, and Tommy laughed. "Don't worry," he consoled Sherlock cheerfully, "I'm sure they think that anyway!"

Sherlock smacked his arse playfully, and they finally made their way back into the dining area.

Sherlock almost walked straight out of the cafe, having somewhat forgotten what they had been there for, and Tommy had to guide him back to the table.

"But I'm not hungry," Sherlock whined, impatient to go outside and _do_ things.

Tommy shook his head affectionately.

"Either. That's the crack. But they're gonna make us pay for this food anyway, and if we don't eat anything, we'll feel it after," he pointed out, and Sherlock didn't want to argue.

Tommy clearly had knowledge about this stuff, while Sherlock only had whatever theory had been covered in pharmacology textbooks – which, while it told him about the repression of hunger, did not tell him much about other consequences that could be further associated with repression of hunger.

He almost regretted ordering so much, but then when he saw the still-warm plates of food laid out on the table, he knew: he was entirely capable of doing this.

The waitress came over with freshly-brewed jugs of coffee and poured them as they sat down.

"The boss bloody hates it when customers do that," she murmured, tilting her head slightly towards the door from which the duo had just emerged. "He's such a frigging homophobe."

Sherlock was nervous, anticipating some sort of wrathful act from the manager, but Tommy responded with smiles and charm. "And what do you think?" he inquired, brashly.

Sherlock didn't understand the pang that the simple question caused to go through his heart. Surely that look of interest Tommy was giving the waitress was just an act; the same sort of act that was put on for clients.

"To be honest lads," the waitress replied, depositing an unasked-for copy of the day's paper on the table, thereby matching their table up with every other one in the cafe, "If that's what gets your rocks off, why not?"

Tommy laughed aloud at this, and got stuck into his food.

Sherlock however, was distracted by the newspaper; the writing and the pictures seemed to be leaping off the pages at him. He'd always been an avid reader, had drifted away from the pastime of late, but now found himself enraptured by the stories conveyed to him by the paper.

"Sherlock!" Tommy called him back to reality. "Cheers," he said cheesily, inclining his head and raising his coffee cup. Sherlock smile broadly in return, and focused on emptying the table of food.

* **Yeah, I did! Seriously, where is the "off" switch for my fucked-up sense of humour? :p**

**Well, this chapter turned out longer than anticipated! Hopefully it was in a good way, though, not a "holy jesus is she ever going to stop raving on?" kind of way! I actually intended to further the plot along a teensy bit more in these two chapters, but it seems that my protagonists can't keep their hands (and other bits) off each other! *tuts***

**Unfortunately, I have an exam on Monday, so there won't be another chapter until after that! I'm really sorry, and I wish it wasn't so. Please R&R though – I LOVE feedback, and the more comments I get, the more motivated I am to really push myself to stay up until the wee hours writing this madness and inflicting it on others!**

**Thanks for reading!**

**xxRegretteRienxx**


	11. Chapter 11

**Omg. Went to bed around 2am, woke up at about 5am and needed to continue writing...So here we are, chapter 11! **

**(And now I really need to spend the rest of today studying like crazy!)**

**Hope you enjoy!**

**xxRegretteRienxx**

Sherlock was buzzing when they reached Russell Square, but he wasn't skipping along the path – that was just a very noticeable spring in his step. Entirely different.

A shout drew their attention as they were crossing the road to get to the park area, and Sherlock darted his eyes sharply to the source. A slightly portly, middle-aged man was looking distinctly embarrassed at having vocalised his excitement, and Sherlock switched his game face on: a happy smile, not overjoyed, just the right balance of interested and aloof to entice the clients in.

This man, he didn't need to lure; had already landed, hook, line and sinker. Clyde. He was married, most of them were, and though good at his work, earning a comfortable income, felt like he had missed out on his true calling in life, and turned to rentboys – although nowadays, Sherlock exclusively – to make himself feel alive.

It was a sad story, but not the saddest, and Sherlock somewhat enjoyed him as a client. He was so repressed that even in his rebellion of seeking out Sherlock he was quite predictable: once a week, straight-up sex, always in the back of his car, and he was always, always fascinated by the sharp protrusions of Sherlock's hipbones. He took 10 minutes from greeting to climax, but liked to cuddle briefly afterwards, before allowing Sherlock to peel away from him, and digging out his wallet.

Just the sort of client Sherlock was happy to deal with right now.

He parted from Tommy's side with no expression of farewell – to indicate connection to others wasn't always conducive to feigning interest in clients – they could often tell the difference between the real relationship, and the show that they received. It ruined the fantasy. And a ruined fantasy could mean _no payment_.

Clyde didn't seem to notice Tommy, fixated on Sherlock, and a little more exuberant than usual. Sherlock supposed he may have been waiting for him in the park a while.

He embraced Sherlock, and planted a kiss on him, Sherlock snapping his chin upwards to deter Clyde from landing it on his mouth. Clyde didn't mind at all – he knew the rules, and besides, he was sufficiently distracted by Sherlock's lanky body pressed against his own.

He turned away, obviously walking to his car, trusting that Sherlock would follow him, because it was what he _did_. Sherlock constantly altered in his regard for this characteristic of Clyde's – pity, envy, disgust, frustration, amusement – and perhaps that was part of why he tolerated him as a client; he was entirely predictable, and yet, unfathomable.

The car was parked down an alleyway not far from Russell Square, and Sherlock was about to join Clyde in the backseat when realisation struck him.

"Shit," he uttered, amazed that he could have done such a stupid thing. "Shit shit shit shit shit."

Clyde looked at him in concern, belt already unfastened, and beginning to work his trousers down.

"What?" he asked, with a tinge of impatience.

"Condoms." Sherlock explained with a mixture of apology and frustration in the one word.

"Oh." replied Clyde. "I don't have any in the car. _You_ normally have them." he pointed out.

"I _know_," Sherlock answered testily, but he could see a Tesco's across the way. "I'm sorry, I'll be back," he promised, and dashed off.

He heard Clyde call after him, "I'm not paying for this!" and a twist of dread threatened his gut. He was probably going to have to work harder than usual to please Clyde tonight.

Sherlock had no patience for supermarkets, and so, was brisk with grabbing the first packet he saw, and stalking out, not waiting for his change at the register. He tore the packet open and discarded the box, shoving all but one sachet in his back pocket.

He was clambering into Clyde's car within moments of having departed earlier.

Clyde was obviously pleased to see him return so quickly, but his earlier eagerness had diminished. Sherlock could work on that.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered in a pitiful voice, knowing that Clyde liked him to be a submissive underling, looping his arms under Clyde's (the posture encouraged Clyde to wrap his own arms around Sherlock, and in turn, created in Clyde a subconscious acceptance of Sherlock and affection towards him – Sherlock was meticulous in his study of implicit psychology), and plastering kisses all over Clyde's face, avoiding the mouth, but otherwise, a seamless show of lust and desperation. Sherlock was sat astride him, knees on either side of his lap; ensuring their crotches were close together.

"So so so so sorry." he continued with the inundation of kisses, and gyrated needily against Clyde. He felt, with some satisfaction, that he was already having the desired effect, and Clyde's breath was already becoming quicker. It was too easy.

"Please fuck me?" he begged softly, directly into Clyde's ear, and lifted himself up when the man gasped, and tore at his own trousers, finishing the partial-undressing.

Sherlock struggled out of his jeans hastily, not for the first time wishing that Clyde would just get a goddamn credit card under a fake name and book hotel rooms to use, rather than forcing them to twist around in the backseat of his car. It wasn't like it was that difficult to falsify an identity, after all. But he pushed the thought away, and repositioned himself on Clyde's lap, as though nothing else preyed on his mind.

"Oh," he groaned in apparent appreciation of Clyde's cock, now hard, and Clyde smiled happily, his previous uncharacteristic peevishness vanished.

He placed his soft hands, as ever, on Sherlock's hipbones and shifted the skin, watching it stretch and move over the sharp points. Sherlock leant back with a satisfied "Mmm," but then reached down purposefully for Clyde's cock. The first stroke was a studied tentative motion, the subsequent ones more firm, more confident, and Clyde enjoyed it immensely.

Sherlock sometimes wondered whether his wife _ever_ fucked him, he was so responsive and easy to please in these sessions. That was not typical of a sexually satisfied man.

He tore the sachet in his hand open, and put it on Clyde, repositioned himself, draping his arms around Clyde's neck, and perched so that Clyde's cock just nudged at his arse.

He hesitated, which was part of the act, but the nervous tremor that then passed through him was not so put-on. He hadn't prepped. This might hurt. It might not. Clyde was a bit smaller than most. Was the condom going to be lubed enough to make it okay?

Sherlock hadn't realised that his face was betraying him, until Clyde broke the silence with a subdued, "Ready?" as though _he_ was the one who was in charge of how this situation was going to progress, and would dictate whether Sherlock lowered himself down in the next couple of seconds.

Placing a smile on his face, Sherlock reminded himself that he needed the money, reminded himself that if it did hurt, there was the cocaine to help. He hadn't had any for at least an hour now – he just had to find Tommy and get some more.

"Ready," he whispered back, and lowered himself down.

He hissed, and cried out an "Agh!" and bit his lip, as though trying to contain himself; but the blessed reality was that it didn't hurt. It was probably partly Clyde's under-endowment, but probably also Sherlock's years of being soundly fucked in the arse in his work, not to mention his years before being a rentboy, in his past life with boyfriends and other such "normal" things.

Sometimes, he thought that his near-scripted reaction to Clyde (and other clients, come to that) was too much, but it always turned out that he was convincing enough, they were distracted enough, and they were overall just flattered.

Clyde wasn't even slightly a challenge, Sherlock considered, keeping the rhythm and throwing in reactionary gasps and whines on occasion – the client was almost finished, already, there was a characteristic tensing in his face, in his shoulders, and he was thrusting into Sherlock faster, faster, faster...there.

Sherlock was able to openly watch Clyde with interest when he came, without being considered rude – the man kept his eyes closed the whole time. Sherlock could also let some of the control over his echopraxia slip, without being noticed, and he would automatically hang his mouth open the same amount that Clyde did, then pull a near-grimace/concerned face as the climax approached, but he couldn't quite mimic the face that Clyde made when he actually came.

Clyde relaxed, and Sherlock leant forward with an ostensibly happy sigh, snuggling into Clyde's arms.

It was pleasant, having clients who didn't expect you to come as well. Less stressful.

Sherlock didn't even get hard with some clients, Clyde included, and had a well-rehearsed story about having a medical condition that prevented it, trotted out whenever any clients were curious, or offended at his lack of response. It would gain him a pissed-off huff, or an uncomfortable "oh," but it basically ensured that they dropped the subject. There had been occasions when a determined client had tried to 'cure' Sherlock's 'condition'...Those hadn't been the best episodes, but the clients concerned had never attempted it again.

He knew that there were drugs that would just make him hard, regardless of how he actually felt, but was disinclined towards using them for a few reasons: didn't want to go through the effort of obtaining them, didn't want to become dependent upon them for performance, didn't want the hassle of taking one blue pill x amount of time prior to when an erection was desired... If the clients wanted someone who was hard on demand, there were other rentboys out there who could cater to them.

"You're so good," Sherlock gasped, panting against the corner of Clyde's jaw, playing out satisfaction, desire and contentment.

"You're perfect," Clyde murmured in reply, one arm looped up around Sherlock's back, his hand placed on Sherlock's shoulder, his other hand stroking Sherlock's upper thigh absently. "I'm...sorry I was so abrupt with you before," Clyde ventured, and Sherlock hummed, nuzzling against Clyde's neck.

They were settled there for a moment, when Clyde sat upright with a start, jolting Sherlock. "Oh shit, I'm late!" Clyde exclaimed, "Dinner appointment!" he added in explanation.

Sherlock stopped what he was doing, and raised himself off Clyde's cock swiftly, ignoring the empty feeling. It was physical, not emotional, and the sensation would soon be replaced. He removed the condom from Clyde, and busied himself with pulling his jeans on. He contorted himself out of the car, Clyde right behind him, patting down his jacket.

Sherlock stared down the alleyway. Something had caught his eye, but he wasn't certain what.

"Thank you," Clyde said, voice filled with gratitude, as always, and pressed a couple of notes into his palm. Sherlock was relieved. As minimal effort as Clyde was, serving a non-paying client never quite equalled a paying one.

Sherlock granted him a smile. "Anytime, Clyde," he said, pocketing the cash and turning on his heel. He lit a cigarette as he departed, eyes scanning for Tommy, for another client, for...what was it that he'd seen?


	12. Chapter 12

Well, I have a few apologies to make before imposing this entry on the world -

Sorry for taking so long between posts.  
Sorry that this entry is so RIDICULOUSLY long (approx 3,500 words).  
Sorry for making an Israeli antagonist. I _don't_ mean offence by this, I _don't_ mean to try and say that Israelis are more likely to perform criminal acts than any other nationality, I just had to choose _a_ nationality, and that was the one I went with. I hope everyone's okay with this.

Thanks to everyone who has persisted with this fic and been so patient with the huge gap between posts.  
As always, comments are love!  
Read on, my pretties! 

xxRegretteRienxx

-

He couldn't see Tommy anywhere upon his return to Russell Square, and paced in agitation, searching. He thought he saw a familiar face, but then – he caught the eye of another lone figure, who gazed steadily.

Was it analysis, or desire?

Sherlock inclined his head a little, and licked his lips – a strategy which would send the right signals to a client, but wouldn't provide enough evidence for an undercover police officer to justify an arrest. To say it was a well-practised gesture would be a severe understatement.

Apparently, the other man interpreted Sherlock's indication correctly, because his hesitation vanished, and he half-sauntered, half-strode across the park until he stood directly in front of Sherlock. They didn't break eye-contact the whole time.

Sherlock tensed slightly as he surveyed this new client. He was taller than Sherlock, and physically larger. On top of which, he had an aggressive demeanour, and this was the part which really gave Sherlock cause for concern. How much would the client want, and could Sherlock give it to him? Especially without his extra, needed dose from Tommy.

He clenched and unclenched his hands in an attempt to dispel the tension he was feeling, and raised his chin to look the other man in the eye. Despite his defiant pose, his expression was inviting, submissive, and he knew his lips being pouted just so was irresistible to near all his clients.

"You'll do." The man said decisively, after sizing Sherlock up for a moment.

He grabbed Sherlock's jacket lapel and dragged him along roughly. Sherlock's heart raced as he panicked, but allowed himself to follow the other man.

_Don't fight, don't provoke, it'll make things worse._ Running was always an option, Sherlock reminded himself, endeavouring to deduce the extent of the threat posed by the other man.

Surprise and relief swept through him when their pace was stopped at a park bench, and the man released Sherlock's jacket. He sat on the bench abruptly, and parted his knees.

"Suck me." he ordered.

"50 pounds." Sherlock said automatically, then balked. They were out in the open, anyone could see.

Tact was in order – this client wasn't exactly someone who would take well to being told that his choice of venue was less than optimal.

Break down the defences. There were always defences, Sherlock knew.

He moved purposefully between the other man's knees, never breaking eye contact, and gracefully knelt. He smiled, and the hint of nervousness wasn't entirely an act, as he was preoccupied with thoughts of his next hit, and whether there were any police in the vicinity.

But to the client, his anxious expression conveyed anticipation and possibly lack of experience which Sherlock had observed, was inexplicably a common kink amongst many of his clients. They clearly had no concept of just how very improbably it was to find a virginal rent-boy, let alone one who was worth paying anything at all for his fumbling, pathetic services.

He pressed his palms against the other man's knees, fanned his fingers out and slowly moved both hands further up the thighs. He let his breath out in a gradual exhale, which the client mimicked unconsciously, revealing to Sherlock just how engaged he was in the moment, and his level of desire, communicated by the quavering, uneven release of air.

Sherlock abandoned the legs teasingly, before he properly reached the man's groin, and grasped his hands instead. He drew the hands to his mouth and kissed them one after the other, then chose a finger at random to torment with his tongue, lips and just the barest edge of his teeth.

The erotic manipulation was almost automatic, as his conscious brain entertained itself with collecting points of interest about the man. He was aroused, there was no doubt there; straining fabric betrayed that.

Unmarried – he picked another finger to lave – there wasn't even a dent on the man's ring finger to indicate the removal of a ring in an attempt to disguise a marriage. Single, definitely. No girlfriend either, judging by those unpolished business shoes which would have been buffed at least a little in order to garner attention and interest from potential romantic partners.

This outfit was zero-effort, straight-from-the-office, and Sherlock knew exactly what was lacking in this man's life. Despite his aggressive demeanour and conduct, this man was actually shaking more from fear than desire; the sweat on his palms and brow was evidence of that simple fact: Sherlock could _literally taste_ the wrong concentration of salt and hormones on his skin; this was not the right sweat for the situation.

This new information made Sherlock's next step only too easy.

Satisfied, he rocked back on his heels and stood up in a smooth movement, running a finger upwards along the client's torso as he did so. It was just the mildest suggestion but again, the absolute loss of control that the client was experiencing in this situation meant that he again followed the motion automatically.

He seemed somewhat bewildered to find himself on his feet, and Sherlock acted fast to distract him again and get them out of the spotlight he was only partly imagining completely illuminating them. He stepped in close again; proximity seemed to throw this particular man: he couldn't quite suppress his fear response enough to be able to completely lose himself in the experience. That explained the redirection of energy into making it seem as though he was completely in control of the situation.

Sherlock's relaxed assertiveness was something the other man didn't know how to contend with. Had Sherlock been blatantly wresting dominance, he probably would have responded with even greater aggression, but subtle control was much more difficult to counter.

He ground his hips calculatedly against the client, providing multiple attacks by slipping a hand between them to stroke in an entirely singular manner. Sherlock also targeted a particular spot on the man's jaw with his tongue. It seemed to do the trick.

Sherlock ensured his expression was equal parts agreeableness and pleading. The client was reduced, couldn't argue, couldn't control, there was nothing _tangible _to fight against. It was all pure lust now, and Sherlock turned the grind of his hips against the clients' body into a gentle, gradual guidance towards the bushes just behind the park bench.

Slowly, wonderingly, the client backed into the shrubbery, and as soon as Sherlock noted that they were surrounded by plants instead of the eerie, deceptive emptiness of the park, he fell to his knees again.

He'd put enough work into this client already – goddamn it – he should start upping his prices to account for his highly personalised service. He knew that his ability to read clients and understand what they wanted was far superior to any other rent boy. But higher prices would discourage clients; they would be reluctant to come to him, and he'd be deprived of his favourite game: deducing what clients want from a sexual partner, and then changing himself in order to suit it brilliantly.

The current client's desperation was only too apparent, and Sherlock found that he hardly needed to pay any heed to his technique again; just the moisture, heat, pressure and motion of his mouth seemed to be sufficient. This client didn't care if Sherlock was skilled, or paid particular attention to his head or his frenulum or whether Sherlock was able to consume his entire length without choking (he was), or whether Sherlock stimulated his balls in any way – It was all over fast regardless, and Sherlock was glad twice: once to be free to return to his hunt for Tommy, and once for his observational skills so that he could remove himself from the firing line, so to speak, well in advance, perfectly avoiding...unpleasantries.

Yes, he'd managed to disengage just before the client had come into his mouth.

"Well." he announced conclusively, and patted the client's thighs as he stood again, much as a rugby player pats his teammate on the back after a good game. "50 pounds." he repeated, because the other man hadn't yet come back to himself or made a move to pay. He didn't, however, look as though he was about to faint, so that was a plus.

"Yeah," the man breathed, but couldn't decide whether to pull his trousers back on first or get his wallet out.

Sherlock lit a cigarette while the client fumbled: he was disinclined to help, even though his assistance would undoubtedly hurry the process along. His apathy was returning, he couldn't find compassion for anyone else – particularly not people who had a habit of treating others like shit. A small corner of him was glad not to have bowed to the client's desire to abuse, but it was nowhere near a large enough corner to make any significant difference. Even had the client beaten him, Sherlock possibly wouldn't've cared, and he wondered at the effort he'd actually put in to avoid getting rough treatment.

He didn't tap his foot while waiting for the cash, but his eyes darted in paranoia around the park, and then a note was being tucked into his pocket.

"Alright." he stated, turning on his heel and walking off without a backwards look.

It only took a second to reach the centre of Russell Square again, and he spun slowly, noting everything and everyone. He stopped short mid-survey, however, because there was his target. Tommy. He was leaning over a car on the other side of the park, talking charm through the open window. Sherlock didn't need to hear it or see anything besides the posture and the gestures to know that Tommy was talking his way into the car, with dirty promises and beautiful, lewd words. Sherlock had done it himself on countless occasions.

The cheer that had bubbled up inside him dissipated when he realised that Tommy picking up another client meant that Sherlock couldn't score off him just now. Irrespective of this minor detail, he continued to stare over at Tommy.

Suddenly, it hit him just why he was so fixated, and just what it had been that had caught his eye back in the alleyway with Clyde.

It had always thrown him, because it was such a stereotype for the villain to drive a sleek, black car, with immensely tinted windows.

Shit. Allen. Shit!

He'd been so busy thinking about cocaine, he'd failed to spot the distinctive, olive, elegant hand protruding from the shadows, extended to lightly pet Tommy's jaw.

Sherlock wasn't sure if it was jealousy or disgust that overtook him in that moment, but he did know it was the single most unpleasant emotion he had encountered since Allen's most recent session those couple of days prior.

He started towards the car urgently, despite seeing the door had already opened; despite Tommy already climbing in. It was impossible to stop the chain of events, but he still tried. Completely irrational.

He lunged forward with a surge of energy and – collided solidly, knocking the wind out of himself. He basically kept his feet, however, thanks to some miracle, and no thanks to the legs of the other person tangling around with a complete lack of coordination. He swore out loud this time, and his curses chorused with the obstacle's own angry utterances. He was constantly observing, of course he couldn't help but notice who the man he was currently trying to extricate himself from was.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade." he commented. It was almost a greeting, despite his unfriendly tone.

The other man's head snapped up, and though his eyes registered recognition, his jaw worked through a variety of shapes trying to recall the correct name.

"Sherlock." Sherlock pointed out, resigning himself to just having to wait until Tommy was returned to the park. _If _he was returned.

"Sorry, yeah, Sherlock." Lestrade stuttered. "I was miles away, thinking about this bloody case."

"The kidnappings?" Sherlock inquired, purely to prompt Lestrade to talk more.

"Yeah," Lestrade nodded. "It's been all over the news, hasn't it? I'm not thrilled about that, advertising to the criminals just where we're up to in our investigations, letting them know how far ahead of us they are."

"Hmm." Sherlock said non-commitally, scanning the park for Tommy's return (ridiculous: Allen wouldn't be done with Tommy yet, what was he thinking?).

"It's a bit too obvious, don't you think?"

Lestrade was lost now. "What do you mean?"

"The first person who was taken is well-known for frequenting Vatan, an Israeli restaurant. The second person has Israelophilic parents, as evidenced by her first name: Farah. And the third person is possibly the worst offender of all, having just come back from a six-month working holiday in Tehran. It's really quite, quite obvious." Sherlock rattled off.

His continued search for Tommy meant that he missed the look of bewildered amazement that descended upon Lestrade's face. "So you're saying that all the victims have been kidnapped because they're Israeli? They're not Israeli, Sherlock. Each of them is a British subject."

Sherlock sighed impatiently, and shot Lestrade a look of derision that was usually reserved for exclusive use on Mycroft. "You are underestimating the kidnapper. They're concerned about national pride, not nationality. The only thing is, I don't know what has happened to the hostages, so I don't know what side the kidnapper is on. Anti-Israeli, most likely, with those father issues."

"Father issues? What are you on about?" Lestrade demanded. "We have no idea who the kidnapper is, no ties between the victims – "

"The Israeli link, I just told you." Sherlock cut in.

" – no _real _links," Lestrade persisted, "And now you're throwing around speculations, based on nothing! Just because every second person in your industry has severely unresolved father issues doesn't mean that's what motivates the rest of the world!"

Sherlock maintained a steady gaze, not betraying the impact of Lestrade's words. A muscle in his jaw twitched, but otherwise he was terrifyingly still. The inspector seemed to suddenly realise how spiteful he was being, and he stopped, gathered himself.

"Sorry. Sorry. Stressing again. Completely unwarranted. Look, I don't care what you do. That's not my concern. It's not even my department, I deal with homicide. The higher ups think that our kidnapper might kill the hostages – or might've done already, which is why they've lumped me with this. I hate to admit it to anyone, especially a civilian, but – ha – who are you going to tell?" Lestrade laughed humourlessly. "I don't know what to do with this case. I have nothing to go on!"

"The Israeli - " Sherlock began again, but Lestrade cut him off. "Stop saying 'the Israeli connection'! Where did you get that type of information from, anyway?"

Sherlock scratched his side absently.

"I deduced it, from an article I read in the paper earlier today."

"Deduced it?" Lestrade scoffed, crossing his arms. "Go on, then. Who's our kidnapper?"

"I don't know who they are, precisely," Sherlock admitted. "But I do know they may have some form of vendetta against Israelis – it's complicated, so likely the kidnapper is Israeli themselves, probably posing as a tourism promotions representative, therefore having connections with the British-Israeli community, and able to track people who regularly attend particular venues. The kidnapper likely made friends with Farah's parents via a chance meeting at a party or another social gathering, and exchanged contact details under the guise of developing a friendly acquaintance relationship, and finally, a tourism promotions representative is naturally a port of call when people are planning trips overseas, which explains the unfortunate Mr McWilliams. Our kidnapper goes against the expectations of society – I believe she is a female, rather than the typical male antagonist, and this should narrow your search parameters significantly. She's young, a recent generation, passionate about Western society as proven by her nylon-based clothing – you remember the scraps found at the site of Mr. McWilliams' kidnapping? – nylon, as opposed to more traditional materials such as cotton. She's acting out against the oppressive societal structure well known to be upheld in Israel, her rebellion possibly due to being the youngest girl of a family of three, maybe four, older brothers. She seems to be out to punish people she regards as likely to contribute to the oppression of women."

"Oh my god." Lestrade breathed. "You can't be serious. We've got experts all over this case, forensic psychologists, anthropologists, the best investigators in the precinct, and no-one's come up with a theory nearly as convoluted, mad, and...entirely believable as yours. I just can't comprehend it. I mean, I'll have to look into it all, maybe you're just talking bollocks, but...stop scratching, yeah? Here, write your number on this," Lestrade requested, holding out his notepad and pen. "If you're right, and dammit, I don't know what I'll do if you are, I'll need to be in touch with you again. That is alright, isn't it?"

Sherlock nodded briefly, but didn't reach out to accept Lestrade's offering.

"I don't really..." he searched for a way to phrase it, "_like _answering phone calls. You're better off texting me. I answer fast, don't worry." he added, not sure why he felt a need to reassure the officer.

"Fine," Lestrade confirmed with a wave of his hand, "I'll text, fine. Stop scratching, though, I think you've drawn blood!"

Sherlock looked down at his hand, still rhythmically digging into his side. It didn't seem right, it didn't seem to belong to him. He thought about stopping the motion, but nothing happened. Dysmorphia. Why...?

Lestrade's hand shot out, grasped Sherlock by the wrist and dragged his hand away.

Sherlock managed to break free of this hold, and shoved Lestrade away roughly.

"Get off me!" he shouted, wrapping his arms over his head as he struggled for control. He blocked out Lestrade's look of concern, the mild protestation of "I'm just trying to help..." and grit his teeth in agony.

Where the fuck was Tommy? Why was Allen still tormenting him? He couldn't bear it anymore. Fuck, fuck, fuck!

"I have to go." he announced suddenly, not meeting Lestrade's gaze. "I have to."

He shoved his hands in his pockets, and strode away rapidly. He didn't know where he should go, what to do. He needed to find – maybe he should go back home. Maybe it was better if he waited here.

He reached a park bench and stopped, looked at it, stood near it, paced from one end to the other.

No, he didn't want to sit down.

He looked across the park. Lestrade hadn't followed him.

What now, what now?

He checked his wrists – no watch. He tapped his pockets automatically, even though he'd just had his hands in them. His phone must be at home. Not that it would help; he didn't know what time it'd been when Tommy had left, anyway; no idea how long he'd been in the park.

Agitated, he kicked at the park bench. It wasn't enough to damage it, to tip it over, but it was something to do.

His leg became sore and he was forced to stop.

Now, he sat.

He slumped over, arms folded, then straightened them out and traced his fingers through the grass, which was beginning to gather dew. The drops of moisture transferred to his fingers without protest, and soon his fingers were icy cool.

He brought them closer to his face to inspect, flexing them, rubbing them together. They were working now, back to belonging to hi, and he looked up with a triumphant smile. He was okay. And that – that was Tommy! He leapt to his feet and ran over.

It was clumsy, his legs had gone stiff from the position he'd sat in, and he slid on the wet grass, but he reached his destination, slamming their bodies together as he tried to express to Tommy how much he'd missed him, how much he'd wanted him, how much he was glad that Allen hadn't done anything horrible with him.

He couldn't, it would never, never be possible to be able to communicate that, but he did crush Tommy's lips against his, did make a huge effort to devour the other man, did cling to his clothes desperately.

Tommy broke away for a breath. "Hello, eager." he smiled, and Sherlock leaned in to claim his mouth again.

"Don't go," he murmured urgently, and Tommy looked at him in confusion.

"Okay." he said finally, and stroked Sherlock's hair gently. He planted a kiss to Sherlock's temple. "We'll go home, shall we?"

Sherlock had wrapped himself around Tommy – now that he was back, he didn't want them to part _ever _again. He nodded with his chin resting on Tommy's shoulder.

"Come on, you big goof." Tommy chuckled, easing Sherlock away.

They began walking, and Sherlock attempted to be satisfied with just holding Tommy's hand. He reminded himself every step of the way, that walking while hugging was impractical, barely feasible. Holding hands was okay.

He held on with all his might.

-

TBC


	13. Chapter 13

Ask, and ye shall receive! (Itsallfine) Although, this is more a coincidental posting than much else, because I already had this chapter written, just managed to forget that I'd finished it! That said, I do hope to spend this weekend working on the fic more, and progressing things along...Let's see how that goes, shall we?

Comments appreciated beyond belief!

xxRegretteRienxx

His hand was cramped well before they got back to Baker St; but Sherlock didn't care, and Tommy didn't make any comment, didn't pull away from his grasp.

That wasn't until they got inside the front door.

Then Sherlock found himself shoved up against the wall, with Tommy voraciously attacking his mouth, digging his hands down the front of his trousers.

Sherlock moaned. He was tired of this; sore, and the extended kisses from Tommy meant that he could now detect the taste of Allen on Tommy's lips, in Tommy's mouth. It sickened him, and he contemplated actually fighting Tommy off.

But then, he probably wouldn't be able to score. He sighed, and let Tommy persevere.

"You want me?" Tommy asked in a growl as he ground his hips against Sherlock.

Sherlock was disinterested in rhetorical sex questions: even before he'd begun this work he found them tedious, but he murmured encouragingly anyway. Best not to try and engage the other parties in conversation, he'd learnt.

"You like that? You want me to fuck you hard – so hard that you come without me even touching you?"

"Please," Sherlock begged, and Tommy thought it was a request for his cock, not a desperate plea for more heroin, more coke, whatever, something, anything to make it all go away.

It wasn't too difficult to pretend that he was engaged in the activity – Tommy misinterpreted his shivers of revulsion as shudders of desire, and frankly, wasn't paying close enough attention to Sherlock to notice his honest reactions anyway.

Tommy's hand was not adept enough to make Sherlock's arousal materialise, and after a couple of moments of unsuccessful endeavouring, Sherlock diplomatically ushered them both upstairs, citing the excuse that he didn't want to wake Mrs. Harris.

"Fuck her." Tommy murmured aggressively, although he followed Sherlock up the stairs willingly enough. "Actually, you know what? Maybe I _should_ fuck her! That'd shut the old bat up! Give her something to keep her quiet! She can even bring her knitting needles along, the kinky old cow!"

He was shouting now, making jerky darts towards 221A, hindered only by Sherlock's desperate clinging to his upper arm.

_Where is this coming from?_ Sherlock's mind raced. _Tommy hasn't even _seen_ Mrs. Harris, let alone had any opportunity to have some sort of negative interaction with her._

With a huge effort, Sherlock yanked Tommy to him, halting the other man mid-tirade.

"Come upstairs," Sherlock offered, nuzzling deliberately at Tommy's neck. "Take me upstairs," he said. "I want you to fuck me while I'm off my head. Fuck me until I can see straight again." he urged, pulling at Tommy's clothes just enough to encourage him upstairs, plying him with kisses all around his neck and collarbone: this reduced his height; this made him appear less like he was the one with the power.

He didn't need to see Tommy's face to know the man changed his mind; the altered pose, adjusted muscle tensions told Sherlock everything.

He asked anyway, pleadingly: "Do you want that? Do you want to fuck me?"

"Yeah." Tommy affirmed eagerly, stepping blindly into the illusion of control Sherlock had made for him. "I'm gonna fuck you into your senses!" he laughed, as they bounded up the last few steps.

Sherlock was shaking as he turned back from closing the door to 221B, fingers fumbling at the lock. He didn't know what it was: tiredness, desperation, and he didn't care particularly, didn't have time to care.

"What do you want?" Tommy demanded, feeling in his pockets as he made his way into the living room.

"Want...?" Sherlock asked vaguely, muddled again. "You." he attempted, reaching out to just touch Tommy, to make his brain centre on something. All or nothing, his brain demanded. This in-between was no good.

"Idiot." Tommy shrugged him off, disinterested. "What _high_ do you want? I got given some E tonight, haven't tried it yet. Plenty of coke still, you know."

"Please." Sherlock requested, walking backwards into the bedroom with his hands around Tommy's wrist. "You choose. Please."

"Will you lick it off my cock?" Tommy asked, teasing Sherlock more than the other man could bear right now.

"Yes!" Sherlock begged, laying himself onto the bed, tears in his eyes. Everything was excruciating to him now. He'd do anything for it to go away.

Tommy smiled hungrily at Sherlock's broken plea, attributing his desperation to lust alone.

"Fuck, yes." he moaned, quickly working to break open a silver packet of coke. Some tipped onto the sheets in his urgency, but who gave a fuck?

"You're such a good whore – look at you, all needy and wanting so much more. You just can't get enough cock, can you? No wonder you're in this line of work. Don't worry, I'm gonna give you so much cock, you're not gonna know what to do with it all. You won't be able to walk straight for a week? Fuck that, you're not gonna be able to walk straight for a _mont__h_, fucker..." Tommy's words went on and on, while he tried to get the silver packet open properly.

"Yes." Sherlock agreed flatly, eyes fixed on the coke, and then considered that this wasn't enough, that he had to say something more. "No." _Was that righ__t?_ He wasn't sure, and Tommy didn't correct him.

"Here." Tommy said suddenly, and thrust the packet into Sherlock's hands so that he could pull his trousers off. It was difficult, with his erection in the way, but Tommy made short work of them regardless, tossing them into the corner.

Sherlock hadn't noticed, still fixated. He drew the packet closer to his face, licked a little bit just with the tip of his tongue.

"Ah – ah – ah!" Tommy chastised, as he knelt on the bed, grabbing the packet back and slapping Sherlock's wrist playfully. It was playfully to him, but Sherlock was so sensitive, _too_ sensitive, and he moaned at the sharp contact.

Tommy chuckled at Sherlock's perceived neediness, and, with one hand tightly tangled in Sherlock's hair to hold him in place, proceeded to consume his mouth unforgivingly. With all his urgency, he misjudged the pressure, forced the angle, and rather than nipping at Sherlock's lip, he bit.

Sherlock would have sworn he could taste blood, had he been able to think of anything other than 'fuck-no-shit-fuck-getout-getout-getow-fuck' and contorting his body in a wild attempt to break Tommy's hold.

Finally, Tommy pulled away, panting.

He pushed Sherlock's head down to his cock, completely hard now, and Sherlock shook.

_Oh god, I'm going to get – going to be – _

His body couldn't withstand the conflicts of pain and desire.

"Make it wet, so it sticks." Tommy was saying, and Sherlock darted forward to obey, laving Tommy's cock to excess with his tongue, wanting to make sure that this bit was right, that it would work.

Tommy moaned with pleasure at Sherlock's erratic actions; lust playing a much larger part than any requirement for technique.

"Stop." he growled after a couple of minutes, roughly shaking Sherlock's head and dragging his mouth away.

Sherlock elicited a pained whine.

"Shut up." Tommy instructed, focusing on sprinkling the drug onto his dick. Mostly, the granules stuck to Sherlock's saliva, in little hodge-podge clusters, but some missed, falling into the hand Tommy was holding beneath.

The packet was emptied before Tommy stopping shaking all the contents out, and he couldn't remember how much was meant to have been in that twist.

"Here. It's yours." He explained, shoving his hand into Sherlock's face.

Sherlock caught on instantly, grasping Tommy's wrist and attending closely to every detail. He sucked carefully, devotedly on each of Tommy's fingers in turn, flicking his tongue over the webbing at the base, only easing off when Tommy groaned, "Come on." and thrust his hips, demanding the attention to be relegated.

"Mine?" Sherlock asked; a rhetorical confirmation, and didn't care for the answer, diving into Tommy's lap, tongue working hard to chase down every atom of coke sticking to the other man's cock.

Tommy shuddered. "Oh fuck, oh fuck – yeah..." he moaned, running his hand down the back of Sherlock's head. Sherlock stiffened, hoping that he wouldn't be shoved closer. He didn't want to have to fight his gag reflex. Not now. But Tommy's hands drifted lower, settling between Sherlock's shoulder blades, and Sherlock relaxed minutely. He was being allowed free reign. Good.

It soon became apparent that there were no more miniscule crystals to be found, and Sherlock's technique changed in recognition of this; focusing more energy on bringing Tommy off, than anything else.

A reflexive thrust into his mouth prompted Sherlock to dig his thumbs firmly – but not painfully – into Tommy's hips, and sooner than the other man had anticipated, he was coming, with a tirade of swearing, a plethora of incoherent shouts, and a gradual judder to a halt.

"Juh..." Tommy breathed, bonelessly sprawled over an equally lifeless-looking pillow. "Jesus, you're good at that." he managed on his second try.

"Hmm." Sherlock replied, running his tongue over his lips thoughtfully. Much better. The pain was undetectable now.

Let tomorrow come.

He drifted off, barely registering the movement of the bed as Tommy left the room.

TBC


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock twisted his neck around to stare at the clock accusingly.

8:59 the digital numbers shone, oblivious to his rage.

They were flickering, and he blinked hard to make sure his eyes were clear.

Impossible. The electrical supply to that clock was flawless, and it was a relatively new purchase. There was no reason for the display to be malfunctioning.

Maybe the light was pulsing at a rate of milliseconds. No, nanoseconds. Then why could he perceive the flickering now? What was happening? Why was time going so slowly, yet his brain going so fast? Was he going to just keep getting faster and faster and faster? There was nothing to slow him down, no friction to decrease the acceleration, he could increase speed indefinitely and what then? What then? Was this how he was going to die?

He inhaled sharply, panic coursing through him all of a sudden, and one of the numbers from the clock display flew across the room, slipped onto the stream of air that he sucked into his lungs. It tickled him with its electricity, causing him to snuffle and cough.

The door to the bedroom opened a crack as Tommy snuck back in, and the beam of light that shone through the small gap was vicious and unforgiving on Sherlock's pained eyes. He convulsed, curved in on himself, cringing away from further attacks.

The door was closed with minimal care, and the resulting bang was too loud for Sherlock to deal with. He moaned in pain, but his utterance was entirely misinterpreted.

"Oh yes," Tommy murmured, his twisted smile audible as he stalked across the bed.

Sherlock tried not to catalogue the sounds of the bedsprings creaking as Tommy moved, tried not to perceive the shifting of cloth, but his shields had been lowered by the drug, and he didn't know where to find them again.

Fortunately – and here he wasn't sure if he'd blacked out somewhat, or if, by some miracle, another wave of the drugs had taken effect – but he was spared the finer details of Tommy's version of wake-up sex. To an extent, of course – Fate wasn't that generous. Not to him. He was still aware, still able to move, to speak, to feel...but it was all sluggish and wrong.

He felt choked, as though he was floating, and then Tommy slapped him, centring his attention.

"Ungrateful bitch!" he snarled, and Sherlock shivered at the other man's rotten breath, at the feral expression on his face. "Don't you _dare _fucking go off and sleep! Look, it's morning! Do you think I'm going to go and get some _other_ slut to help me out? Fuck that, that's what I have you for! Sherlock! Wake up, you lazy shit!"

Tommy gave up shaking him finally, letting him drop back against the bed. Sherlock moaned in despair, unable to decide if he'd rather die or throw up.

"Jesus Christ," Tommy growled, and Sherlock heard the lid of something being prised open. Before he could direct his brain to identify the source of the sound, however, Tommy was positioning him, lifting his knees up, spreading his legs apart, tilting his hips –  
"Have to do everything myself, don't I?" Tommy said, the unexpected rage still apparent in every word. "That's okay though, because I know _exactly_ how to get it!" he shouted triumphantly, as he shoved hard – too hard – not prepared – not anticipated – into Sherlock's arse.

Sherlock screamed. He did, didn't he? Did he only think it? Did he just _imagine_ his throat red raw? Was that even possible? Regardless, the simple fact remained. His breath was gone.

Tommy's cock slid right up, and Sherlock, after the stabbing shock of pain, was actually able to thank whatever designer/creator/architect there was out there, that _actually_ fucking a person in half was a physical impossibility, plausible though it seemed right now.

_What motivated him to use lube, though? _Sherlock's brain fixated on the detail; a topic more bearable than what was happening to his body at the moment. No answer was forthcoming, and the train of thought was knocked off the tracks – utterly shattered to pieces, in fact, when Tommy, apparently having adjusted to the sensation, began to move.

It wasn't a barbaric scrape in, scrape out, but it was horrible, an obvious display of power, dominance. Sherlock was simply there for use. He was trapped, pained, and his body wasn't responding properly to his brain's demands to move, twist out from where he was pinned beneath Tommy, to fight... It was torture, plain and simple, and Sherlock had absolutely no means to make it stop.

He ground his teeth, choked back his sobs, and retreated into his mind, filling it with numbers, with questions, with any distraction possibly available.

He succeeded to such an extent, that he didn't realise when it happened. But his body did, and the instinctive relaxation of muscles upon the cessation of attack (yet still ready, twitching in anticipation of conflict being resumed) suddenly caught his attention.

"Fucking hell." Tommy was saying, climbing off Sherlock and moving away. "Talk about a way to ruin the mood."

"What...?" Sherlock managed through his disorientation, his head still spinning, and every part of his body crying out in pain, not to mention the surrounding environment plundering his senses.

Tommy chucked Sherlock's phone onto the bed, where it continued playing its tedious default ringtone. Had to reset that. But for now – he picked the phone up with weak, barely-responsive hands, and silently thanked whoever had texted him and thrown Tommy off.

A fumble, and the message displayed on the phone's screen. His relief meshed with a dash of anger.

_The interfering – !_ He dropped the phone, and rolled onto his belly with a pained grown, wrapping his arms over his head.

The phone's screen remained illuminated:

GUM appointment  
9.30am Kenton &  
Lucas Wing, St  
Bart's. Valerie  
will drive you.

it displayed for a few moments, before fading to black.

-

_Nothing for it,_ Sherlock decided, unwrapping from his pose after a moment, and swinging his legs around to propel himself to his feet. He had to stop, steady himself against the wall, and just stop, just wait, until everything in the room decided what size it was going to be, and just – stop moving.

_No point in showering,_ he told himself sourly: _Nothing the doctors won't have seen before._ Even if it was something the doctors hadn't seen before, Sherlock wasn't entirely sure that he cared.

He pulled on jeans, not bothered about exactly how clean they were, but a sudden bout of ironic vanity prompted him to choose a particularly nice shirt in a shade of blue that always caught Valerie's eye.

If he was going to be forced to attend this appointment (as he knew he would be, if he didn't take the initiative and comply in the first instance), he might as well get the benefit of her squirming uncomfortably during the car journey to Bart's, as she attempted to maintain the subterfuge that she wasn't entirely besotted by his appearance in _that_ shirt.

_It's the little things,_ Sherlock reminded himself, bending over painfully to deal with his shoes. _The little things are important._

He dithered over whether to farewell Tommy, or even let him know that he was going to be off for a while, or to tell him to get out of the apartment and _never come back_ - but the distinctive engine of a Mercedes pulling up to the kerb outside, soon decided him on the matter.

He grabbed his smokes and dashed out the door, letting it slam behind him. _Whatever. Deal with it later._ This issue was more bothersome than Tommy at present, and would only become worse if left alone.

"Valerie," he greeted the immaculately-groomed woman in the back seat, and allowed himself the pride elicited by the warring emotions on her face as she took in his appearance. "I take it my brother is well? Mustn't be too busy ruling the world, if he's taking an interest in my business." he commented, apparently casual, but in fact quite intrigued to learn exactly what information he could garner from the assistant.

Her eyes met his in defiance, and she made a considerable effort not to allow any signs of arousal to be visible. She was certainly more talented in this deception than the average person, however her technique would still have to improve in order for Sherlock not to be able to read her emotions as easily as he could.

"His work is as it always is," she replied in a clichéd, obvious covering statement that made Sherlock huff out a breath in impatience. "And he_always_ has the same amount of interest in your...business. You should know that."

Sherlock tutted in reply, slouched back into the seat, and pulled out his cigarettes. He placed one between his lips and offered the packet to Valerie.

She licked her lips unconsciously, and her fingers twitched.

Sherlock took it in, bemused, but didn't let it show. _A reformed smoker. She'll need something to occupy her hands on a full-time basis if she's going to stick to_that_ resolution._

"You shouldn't smoke in here." she instructed him, but the chastisement fell on deaf ears – as she must have known it would do.

"It's not as though he can't afford the cleaning bill." Sherlock pointed out, a haze of smoke marking his exhalation.

Valerie – it had been Valerie for a while now, hadn't it? 'W' next, of course. Wilhelmina, perhaps. He should suggest it. But he wouldn't – shook her head reproachfully, and looked out the window of the car rather than continue to meet his gaze.

It would take more to get her to actually break in regards to him, Sherlock concluded, shifting minutely in his seat in an attempt to sit in such a way that was less horrendously uncomfortable. Near-impossible, he was beginning to realise, repressing a grimace.

Thank goodness the appointment was at Bart's – not too long to spend in the car. Probably an easier distance for Sherlock to be manhandled across, also, had he been less cooperative.

A spark of interest made itself known to Sherlock despite himself. He'd never been inside Bart's. Walked past it plenty of times, and had always been curious.

In a previous lifetime, he'd have leapt at the chance to study medicines, or toxins, or pursue any of his multitudes of other interests in chemistry and biology to a greater extent.

But – and there was always a "but" when talking about the procession of events in a person's life. Particularly, it seemed, when that person was Sherlock. But – university had been dull, Mycroft had been _too_ successful, and Mummy and Daddy had been _too_ gushing with their praise of the firstborn.

Overall, it had made Sherlock physically sick.

He'd left in the middle of a family dinner; not an everyday weeknight one, no.

The entire Holmes clan (or as many of them who had deigned to attend, which by no account was a small number), was gathered, and the conversation was rollercoastering, looping down to one reference point, and then off again – how _wonderful_ it was that Mycroft was now carrying out these duties for the country, and wouldn't it be _simply_ brilliant if Mycroft could go even further with his career? Of course he would, because he was Mycroft, and a Holmes, and nothing but the absolute peak, the pinnacle, would ever do...

Sherlock spent the whole night (at least, the part that he was present for), in a state of agitation:

He wanted to show Daddy an experiment he'd just completed, and get an alternative perspective on the outcome.

He wanted to get Mummy alone, to talk to her, to admit that he'd discovered something new about himself, something that he'd long suspected, and he was scared, but if she could just say that it was fine, then it would be, he could believe it, he could relax.

Most of all, he just wanted Mycroft, with his false modesty, and other obvious, innumerable deceptions in regards to his new work, and the other_idiotic_ Holmeses (were they _truly_ relatives?) to just go _away_ and stop being so distractive, so false, so ridiculously mundane!

It was too much, when a second-cousin said the terrible phrase to him for the nth time that night: "You must be so _incredibly_ proud of your brother."

Sherlock put down his cutlery (he'd only been morosely pushing everything around the plate for the last hour, anyway), and without a word, stood, and left the table.

No-one called out after him – that would have been undignified – but there were noticeable patches of silence where there should have been conversation, as he stalked out of the room. These were resolved only by a gently dismissive comment from Mummy: "He's been under so much pressure with his studies of late, poor dear. I believe it's all simply taken its toll on him."

Hushed, understanding "ah"s followed, and the night of lavishing praise on Mycroft resumed, sans Sherlock.

He supposed, had he stayed, there would have been some severe reprimands dealt him in private, once everyone had left.

As it was, however, it took Mycroft's people over six months to locate him – he truly was in the last place they'd looked, after all, and he'd not seen Mummy or Daddy in person for another six months after that (more their issue than his, really – apathy was a paralytic, after all, so he had no fight in him to resist Mycroft organising meet-ups and so forth. Apparently, however, it took Mummy quite a long time to build up the courage to see her son again after such a long time of his having simply _vanished_ – "She thought you'd _died_, Sherlock!" Mycroft had actually shouted at him at one point, which went a long way to showing just how much his actions had affected them _all_, he supposed, in an absent, not-too-concerned way – and the news of what he was doing in order to earn a living was quite something for her to come to terms with).

-

"We're here." Valerie announced, as the car was smoothly parked. It should have been a needless statement, Sherlock being the overly, vigilantly-observant individual that he was, but it seemed that today was determined to be absolutely unlike any other day of his life.

TBC


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Note: I know, I know – 50 billion years since the last update on this, but don't think I've forgotten it! Writer's block and busy busy life have prevented me, not to mention a whole bunch of other fic ideas clamouring for attention! Urgh, if only I could write fic all day every day…what my life would be then! Luckily for all concerned, I have holidays sneaking up (next week!) so I'll have more opportunity to work on this. I can't wait!  
Sorry to everyone who has waited and waited for an update. I don't expect buckets of joy for my returning to this now, I just want to get the story out. I have had to change certain aspects of the fic for my brain to be able to work with it again, but I think you'll find it hasn't altered much from how it was.**

**I hope it can still be enjoyed!**

**xxRegretteRienxx**

Thanks were not part of the deal, and Valerie would have had to be a fool to think Sherlock was going to offer any up as he unfolded his long frame out of the tinted-glass recesses of the car.

Finding the Kenton and Lucas wing was no challenge – hospitals were, after all, greatly disposed towards labeling their corridors and making the buildings accessible.

"Holmes." He answered, before the receptionist could post the stupefyingly dull, predictable question.

"Oh! Sure!" the girl exclaimed, reading the addendum to Sherlock's booking. Whatever it said, it had the unfortunate effect of causing her to become intolerably flustered. "Certainly. Please go through to Exam Room 5, er…my lord. The doctor will be along shortly."

_Lord? _Sherlock considered. He was going to kill Mycroft the next time he saw him. A nice, long, drawn-out death.

Sherlock wasn't entirely sure whether Mycroft knew he'd been contemplating different ways to slaughter his brother for years now, and had a choice of five entirely untraceable (or at least, 98% untraceable, especially knowing the London 'investigative' forces) strategies to eradicate him.

He wasn't in the exam room long enough by himself to thoroughly investigate it, which was a shame, because he suspected there was a mass of treasures just waiting to be discovered via the delights of The Blank Prescription Pad.

"Mr. Holmes." The doctor said matter-of-factly as he entered the room. Sherlock turned to face him, to optimally study him, but didn't otherwise respond. "I hope you don't mind my calling you 'mister', I just don't see titles as being integral parts of making diagnoses. Take a seat, won't you?" His tone was congenial, and he gestured absently towards the examination table.

Without intending to, Sherlock sat down. A spark of admiration for the doctor's lack of bowing and scraping to the nonsense title Mycroft had lumped him with, flared in Sherlock.

He wondered whether he'd be able to convince the doctor that he had a non-visible condition that didn't require institutionalisation, but did require medication…preferably _fun_ medication. Otherwise, what was the real point of all this? Sherlock wasn't honestly sure how much interrogation he could tolerate.

"The stats we were sent from your previous doctor are quite impressive, I must say." The doctor mentioned, still flicking through them. "Despite quite a few childhood knockabouts, you seem to be in good health. But we'll still do a perfunctory check-up to be on the safe side. And speaking of being safe…" he looked at Sherlock with his eyebrows raised, silently questioning.

"What?" Sherlock sneered, the first he'd spoken in this appointment.

"Have you been being safe?" the doctor pressed, gently. "If you know, or suspect that you are at risk of having contracted any STIs, we will test for that. Otherwise, we'll just run a general check."

Sherlock refrained from answering. If he did have an STI, Mycroft would hear about it, and if Mycroft had something he could pass off as an excuse to smother Sherlock with a 'protective' living environment…Sherlock would rather be dead.

He hoped morosely for a terminal condition, one which would slip by the doctor's tests unnoticed (the number of false negatives possible was somewhat proportional to the number of false positives – overall, there was a high likelihood that whatever the test results indicated, they would not accurately reflect Sherlock's _actual_ physical condition), but he knew deep down that he probably wouldn't be so lucky.

"Just…do a normal check. And be quick." Sherlock ground out, resisting the urge to curl in on himself which sitting on the doctor's examination bench.

"Ok." The doctor nodded, neutrally, leaving a check box blank on his form. "I'll just do the usual: temperature, eyes, ears, throat, reflexes…you know the drill. And then we'll get a urine sample, and you'll be right!"

He was too cheerful for Sherlock's mood, but at least he was being relatively time-efficient.

A few minutes later, Sherlock's hand shook inordinately as he passed the doctor the small jar containing his urine. The doctor raised an eyebrow at the jerky motion, and questioned in a steady voice, "Alright?"

Sherlock clenched his jaw and nodded sharply, but then at the last second, shook his head. "Please…check for everything?" he requested, his voice painfully, shamefully weak. "It's possible that I might have been exposed to…something."

The doctor nodded, and turned away to open a drawer, pulling out a blood sample kit. Sherlock sat on the examination bench once more, now shaking uncontrollably with sobs. He was going to be found as having every STI under the sun, he thought irrationally. That meant Mycroft was going to swoop in like the great big interfering rodent he was, and Sherlock was going to have to live out his days in the Holmes household, back with Mummy and Daddy and all their _rules_ about 'socially acceptable' and 'correct' behaviour…

The doctor cleared his throat awkwardly. This emotional stuff obviously wasn't his area, Sherlock realised, but there was no space in his turmoil for him to feel any guilt for making the doctor uncomfortable.

"Mr Holmes, do you have any suspicions of which STI we should be looking for? Are you experiencing any symptoms at the moment, such as pain, nausea…?"

Sherlock snapped his head up in a sudden rage. "I don't want to tell you!" he exploded. "I don't _have_ to tell you! Just take the blood and get it done with! Hurry up with ruining my life, why don't you?" He commanded, laying his arm out in invitation.

"Ok, ok." The doctor said reassuringly, hands held up in a manner to indicate he was harmless. It would have been more convincing if he hadn't had a syringe in one hand, but Sherlock wasn't paying attention to him anymore. "Fine?" The doctor said, placating, and approached cautiously, proceeding once it became apparent Sherlock wasn't going to make any more sudden moves.

Sherlock pulled himself together gradually as his blood filled the container, then sniffed and shook his head once the needle was finally withdrawn. He stood to make his way out of the examination room.

"You'll find quantities of heroin, cocaine, and marijuana in those samples, doctor, but I don't expect you should have any problems _overlooking_ them. There is no need to tell anyone besides myself about _any _of the results. Not even Mycroft. Doctor-patient confidentiality should be able to cover me, even against him, surely."

The doctor nodded, assuring Sherlock of his right to privacy, and that oversights in regards to certain people's choices of recreation could always be made. "Er…who's Mycroft?" he questioned at the end of his standard speech, hoping it wouldn't set off his erratically-emotioned patient.

_Of course Mycroft wouldn't contact the doctor directly,_ Sherlock considered. "Never mind." He instructed, glaring at nothing in particular. "Do the tests."

Valerie was still in the car outside, and Sherlock pushed down the irrational feelings of gratitude. Mycroft could have forced his company on him, and played escort, but clearly he hadn't wanted to put Sherlock through more distress than necessary – it wasn't that he was too busy, otherwise he wouldn't be keeping in such close contact with Valerie, texting her throughout Sherlock's appointment. He must know that such a gesture would be perceived by Sherlock as being kind…what did he want from Sherlock now?

Sherlock didn't want to think about it.

"How did you go?" Valerie asked, attempting to appear nonchalant as she typed away on her phone.

"Mind your own business." Sherlock snarled. "And be sure to tell Mycroft the _same_."

Valerie's hurt look normally would have affected Sherlock at least to some extent, but right now her unnecessarily cute (why did Mycroft only hire attractive assistants? Aesthetics was _not_ an indication of work quality!) pout was invisible.

"If I don't have any further ridiculous duties required of me, then I would appreciate being returned to Baker Street." Sherlock announced, impatient to get away.

"Not Russell Square?" Valerie muttered bitterly, clicking a few more keys.

Sherlock shot her a look, but made no comment. _So Mycroft's surveillance spreads that far?_ He fished out another cigarette and considered.

Today was too much effort. He needed something, something stronger than nicotine to take the edge off. His mind returned to the thrills brought by cocaine.

Currently, he had two sources for that – Tommy, who may or may not be at the flat, and who Sherlock was not at all certain he wished to see at the moment; or the dealer's house. Sherlock remembered where it was, and surely he didn't need to be accompanied by Tommy to get anything from them – his money would do all the talking for him.

Wait. Did he have any money? He checked his pockets. Ah. These were the jeans from last night, then. There was a handful of notes in one pocket, and a strip of condoms in the other.

"Yes." Sherlock decreed.

"Yes?" Valerie inquired.

"Yes, actually, I'd like to go to Russell Square. Now."

Valerie passed the instruction on to the driver, the turned her attention back to Sherlock briefly. "I know for a fact that you and your brother were raised with good manners. It probably wouldn't kill you to employ them on occasion."

Sherlock blew out a puff of smoke. "_Probably_ wouldn't, no. Best not to risk it though, don't you think?" he smiled with a sort of twisted humour.

Valerie didn't seem as amused. "Drive quickly, please." She requested the driver, and went back to her phone.


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's Note:** What on earth happened to this update? I was only going to write a short contribution to the story, and suddenly I 2,400 words! Ah, well. I suppose it makes up for my very slow updating. Maybe.

Reviews are very, very welcome!

xxRegretteRienxx

He was delivered to Russell Square with no further conversation, not that it was needed; the tightness of Valerie's lips and her refusal to make eye contact spoke volumes.

Sherlock barely restrained himself from slamming the door as he got out of the car, then instantly regretted his decision. He strode away, hands buried in his pockets. He felt…wrong. Displaced. Slamming something, smashing something would have made him feel better. Made him feel _something_. Tangible. He yearned for it.

"What'll it be?" the ragged man asked, crouched over his stash. Sherlock's feet hadn't failed him: they'd brought him to exactly the right place.

"Make me feel." he ordered, fishing the cash from his pocket and selecting notes to toss onto the floor for the dealer. The man's eyes sparked.

"Feel bad or feel good?" he pressed, flicking through his collection of baggies with one hand, and scooping up the money hungrily with the other.

"Alive." Sherlock answered, and held his hand out impatiently.

"Got just the thing for you, mate." He was told, and a powder-filled sachet finally deposited in his waiting palm.

Sherlock examined his prize. The crystals seemed to sparkle at him despite the gloom of the shabby house. Cocaine once more; the newly-familiar friend. He confirmed his assessment curtly with the dealer, before snatching up some of the gear scattered about the floor and, seating himself, followed the procedure he'd observed being carried out by others. Mix, boil, collect, and send home.

He'd never done it before, and a tremor ran through his fingers at the momentary fear that he would miss the vein, do it wrong, but then the apathy, the dark shawl reminded him. He didn't care if he made a mistake. Either conclusion would be preferable to his current life situation.

The needle pierced his skin.

The next moment he drew breath, it seemed, he had found his way back to the central parkland of Russell Square, a chilly breeze bringing the branches and leaves to life. He shook his head, staggering a couple of steps as he attempted to clear his thoughts, to tentatively prod at his memories and remind himself how he'd gotten there; but the information was not forthcoming.

He toyed with the still-bloated packet his fingers found in his jeans. The dull craving returned, and he darted his attention about the square, lest there be an audience. Seeing none, he wet his lips and began to pry the sachet from his tight-fitting attire.

A car drew in near to him, and he shoved the plastic away from his grasp abruptly, relaxing his pose and swiveling to observe the vehicle. A rather nondescript, navy blue BMW sedan, model from two, or was it three? years ago, but it had had to be serviced last winter – the owner hadn't taken care to protect it from the cold. Perhaps he was lazy, perhaps ill-educated, perhaps too busy to monitor the levels of antifreeze stored in the tank.

The engine idled, and after a short moment, the window closest to Sherlock was wound down, and an elbow – male, approaching middle age, good income, married for some years, but not happily, if the dullness of the wedding ring's metal was anything to go by – was propped on the opening.

Sherlock was certain of the wedding ring's accuracy, since a man who was attentive to his looks enough to wear Gucci as a work suit, as well as to adorn said suit with a pair of elegant, well-cared for cufflinks was more likely to also have his jewelry tended to than not.

He crouched down to bring himself level to whoever was seated in the car.

"Perhaps you've heard," he began, keeping his eyes peeled for any passing patrol. "I am _very_ good at figuring out what people want. Yes, it's true, and yes, I – " He broke off his introductory spiel.

The man in the car cleared his throat awkwardly, leaning his body away from Sherlock in an unconscious signal of embarrassment. "Erm – I wasn't – " he protested, and Sherlock babbled an apology over the top of the other man's words.

"Sorry – so sorry – I saw your – I deduced – " his bumbling was embarrassing, and he closed his eyes, clenched his fists to centre himself.

Obviously the inspector had been at some formalised work function this evening, hence the personal car, brand-name suit – probably the only one he owned, cufflinks…His observation had been incomplete, not incorrect. _Get _all_ the facts _before_ making a deduction,_ he reminded himself, focusing, pushing away the final aftereffects of the cocaine he'd taken.

A deep breath later, and he was able to manage: "Down to the station, Inspector Lestrade?"

"Jesus, Sherlock." The inspector said shakily, still not quite over being propositioned. This really wasn't his area, Sherlock noted. The inspector was, unlike many officers Sherlock had encountered, obviously a very clean-cut citizen. Almost painfully so.

"Look – I'm not here to pick you up." Lestrade explained, switching the engine off and raising his hands placatingly. "Or take you to the station, for that matter. I'm homicide, ok? So unless you're fucking someone to death, what you do to scrape a few dollars in doesn't concern me. Well it does, but not – I just wanted to thank you for your help on my – the – kidnapping case. I got my team to look into your hunches, and you were bloody spot-on with all of them! It's fantastic, I don't know how you managed it!" Lestrade gestured emphatically, conveying his astonished disbelief.

Sherlock nodded silently along with the expected acknowledgement of his work being correct, only muttering: "Not a hunch," when Lestrade uttered the unscientific word. He was starting to get uncomfortable remaining crouched now that it had been determined that he wasn't getting a client, and his cravings hadn't quite gone away. He wondered whether a cigarette would take the edge off.

"Can you tell me how on earth you figured it out, though? I have to know." Lestrade asked, then, jolting Sherlock out of his contemplative reverie. He narrowed his eyes at the inspector, in order to fine-tune his analysis, to better isolate what it was that nagged at him.

"You haven't solved the case yet." he concluded, causing Lestrade to slump forward in exasperation.

"No," the officer admitted. "We keep chasing these really promising leads up, but we can only get so far, and then we hit this wall – we just can't get around the bastard. The team hasn't been able to figure out whether it's one person, two people, a gang of kidnappers…" The frustration was evident in his voice. His eyes begged Sherlock. "I was hoping you might've been able to figure out something more. Point us in the right direction."

Sherlock shook his head. He had more important things to deal with than thinking about ridiculous kidnapping-murder cases that had nothing to do with him. Even as he thought it, the craving flared up in the pit of his stomach.

"I've been…busy." he stated. "And I don't have the resources that the Met has."

"I don't doubt it," Lestrade agreed. "Job like yours, you gotta be on your – um – well, you gotta have your wits about you to get by." Sherlock examined Lestrade's expression carefully. There was something the officer wasn't telling him. "Anyway. I can get you the resources, not a problem. Let you look at some of the files. I shouldn't, but – we'll disregard that for the moment. Do you want to – " Lestrade stopped himself, reconsidered. "No, probably best not. Will you be here in about an hour's time? I'll go and get some of the info from this case and bring it back."

Sherlock stood, stretching his cramped muscles. "An hour." he nodded. "I can do that. But bring all of it. All of the information." he commanded, suddenly testing the bounds. "If you really want me to be of any use to your investigation, that is."

Lestrade's expression again didn't give anything away. "You're here in an hour, we'll see how we go." They shook hands on it, though Sherlock was inwardly laughing his head off at Lestrade's proprietary manner, then the officer drove away, leaving Sherlock to his own devices for an hour. Sherlock had a very specific course of action in mind for that time, of course, and rapidly made his way into a clump of bushes, sitting himself at the base of one so the branches spread out around him protectively.

He wanted to inject the cocaine again; the first time had been wonderful, marvelous, beautiful beyond description, but he didn't have any of the gear on him, he'd left it at the dealer's. He made a promise to himself to source the items needed – perhaps he could drop by the hospital again? But the thought of the hospital, with its prodding and poking and checking for STIs, was not something Sherlock wanted to dwell on at the moment. He would have to make do for now, and moistened his finger, dipping it into the crystals and licking them off, like an illicit sherbet fountain. The taste was rubbish, and his tongue was slightly numbed by the procedure. He wondered whether he should just rub it onto his gums. Better than rendering his tongue useless, he justified.

This method was far more gradual than the injection, of course, and Sherlock thought for a moment that the chemicals weren't working at all, but after a few seconds of compulsively smacking his lips and sucking at his gums, attempting to ensure he had properly consumed all of the granules, a lower version of the buzz he sought made itself known to him. He smiled grimly at the sensation, closed his eyes to focus his mind on it better, wondered whether he could make it increase just by thinking about it, lazily reapplied the crystals to his finger, and took another dose.

He sat there some time, as it turned out, inattentively re-administering doses and eventually it became apparent that his pulse was increasing. Soon he could feel his heart thudding in his chest, twitches of his veins at his jugular, wrists, and groin. His blood was rushing through his body, flooding through; ignited by the glittering chemicals he'd imbibed.

The park around him was coming to life to his senses, and for a moment he was overcome by a deafening, roaring noise, until a somehow still-calm part of his brain told him it was nothing; the normal susurrus of the leaves gently disturbed by the wind. Chirps and squawks and hoots and grunts were also now audible, and when Sherlock finally opened his eyes (the moment when he'd shut them remaining a mystery), he could actually _see_ the masses of birds, squirrels and other small rodents, the various lizards who were venturing out in the dead of night, the chattering insects nervously darting about together as they attempted to obtain food, rather than become food. The necessary, incessant bloodlust of nature overwhelmed Sherlock all at once, and he closed his eyes once more, fumbling the small sachet of crystalline powder in his pocket, taking just a little bit more, just enough to make all this manageable, just…

He snapped to attention. He'd been languorously stretched out across the grass for…quite a few minutes now, hard to tell exactly – which was strange. Wasn't he normally very…what was the word? He normally noticed a lot of things. But this was a different situation. He didn't know what the time was, how long he'd been there, and …what had happened to get his attention? The thing that had happened repeated itself, reminding him. Two male voices, shouting at one another, enraged. _Lestrade,_ Sherlock's mind told him._ Tommy,_ it offered up, and he was on his feet.

There was an attack taking place, something he could – should – intervene in, and bring to a halt, save a life. Wait. But whose life was he saving? He wondered, having broken through the surrounding bushes. He scanned the parklands to find the whereabouts of the altercation. Was it his own life? Was he somewhere here in the park, confronting someone, or being confronted? Had he been beaten up? He did a cursory check of his general wellbeing. Legs, fine. Arms, fine. No real aches or pains, they were all distant, not relevant, he assessed. Had he been hit in the face, perhaps? Was he blind? Oh god – he _was_ blind! He panicked, moaning in distress at being disabled in such a way, and waving a hand in front of his eyes desperately.

Suddenly, he realised he _could_ see his hand – it wasn't a problem of him _not_ seeing, it was a problem of him seeing _too much,_ seeing _everything_. His brain couldn't make sense of it! He sighed in relief at having figured it out, clasping a hand to his chest as he took deep, steadying breaths. Shit. He started once again. That was it – he was having a heart attack! His heart was _racing_! Sherlock began searching the park again, running now from place to place. He had to find himself before his heart gave out and he died! Fuck, oh fuck – would no-one call him an ambulance? Did no-one _care_?

One of the people milling about the park stepped into Sherlock's path. Reflexes down, he ran smack into them before noticing they were there. Arms firmly wrapped around him, holding him still, and when a hand began stroking his back, he relaxed at the soothing touch.

"That's it, shh." A deep voice reassured him. It was so calming, so confident, that Sherlock actually found himself leaning in closer even when the wandering hand descended and grasped his rear firmly, possessively. This person emanated stability. He kept his head down, still attempting to focus his mind, and found himself compliantly following the gentle prompts to walk. It was ok, he told himself. He was being looked after. He sat down where he was encouraged to, but until the door closed behind him, hadn't recognised that he was in a car. That wasn't right, he thought, searching in a panic for clues as to where he was, whose car this – the adjacent door swung open, allowing the other passenger to climb in.

The shock, the stress, overtook Sherlock's heart, stopping it cold.


End file.
